


Alice's Restaurant

by Safiyabat



Series: Disintegration [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mothman, Multi, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and John arrive at Pastor Jim's a little before their planned Thanksgiving celebration in preparation for a truly epic hunt: the fabled Mothman.  Suddenly, Pastor Jim receives a call from a hospital in California: "a former parishioner" has been gravely injured and needs his next of kin at his side as soon as possible.  </p><p>Jim rushes to California to Sam's side.  Dean and John call Bobby for help with the Mothman.  A marvelous Thanksgiving dinner is enjoyed by all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This sat for a year and a half, halfway finished, and got transferred between three machines. I finally finished it.
> 
> For those of you who are curious about the title, it comes from a song that gets played on most American classic rock channels over, and over, and over, and over, every Thanksgiving Day. I don't know why, but it's tradition now. The only way to escape it is to put on the Alt Rock channel.

* **Sam**

Sam looked around the room. He’d worked hard to acquire a space of his own, a vaguely permanent living space, and a very large part of him really didn’t want to be leaving it even for a long weekend. It was joined by the very large part that just hated the idea of camping. Sleeping under the stars might seem fun to his Stanford friends. They were choosing to do so. They’d never been evicted from a motel room because their dad had spent the last of the rent money on ammo (or on booze). They thought sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground was awesome and romantic, because they’d always had the option to go back to their nice warm beds when they were done. Of course, Sam now had that same option. 

He glanced at the pack he’d bought. It was lightweight and it was compact. It also kept a tent, a sleeping bag, his clothes and supplies and even his books in a nice little shell that he could carry on his back. It seemed ridiculous. They’d never needed something like this before, or rather they’d never spent the money on something like this before. When he’d been with Dad or with Dean they’d lived out of the car when they hadn’t had a less mobile roof over their head, and when they’d been “on mission” in rough country a tent of any kind had been rejected for any number of reasons. It would slow them down. It would add weight. It was unnecessary frippery and what kind of a spoiled brat was he, thinking of tents and crap like that when people were dying? 

He wondered what Dean was doing now, what kind of a roof he had over his head. 

He hadn’t heard much from them since the whole Pied Piper mess back before Halloween. In fact he’d heard from Dean precisely twice. Dean reached out once to let him know that he’d completed the cure and to thank him for his help – a stiff, formal note, nothing at all like the stiff camaraderie that they’d fallen into. He’d heard from him again a few days later, close to November 2 letting him know that he’d hooked up with Dad somewhere in New Mexico. “I heard you and Dad met up, heard you and your girlfriend saved his ass from some kind of monster. Thanks for having his back, man.”

Of course the whole thing was founded on lies. John didn’t know he’d met up with Sam, he thought he’d met up with some anonymous hacker contact whose name Sam had come up with on the fly after thinking about his favorite gun. Meli had let both Dad and Dean think she was Taurus’ girlfriend; she was his RA. He’d accepted help from them, thinking they were hunters or at least hunting-oriented researchers. If he’d known that they were actually the son he’d come to California to apparently hunt and the niece of a voudoun he’d murdered – well, someone wouldn’t have walked away and Sam wasn’t entirely sure who that would have been. And Dean – he’d been downright friendly toward Taurus during the two cases they’d worked together. He’d changed his phone number so Sam would stop calling, so there was that. 

He hadn’t stopped with the research for hunters. He honestly didn’t mind helping out when he could, as long as his dad wasn’t involved. This weekend was going to be different, though. He wasn’t bringing his laptop. Only his real phone was coming with him. He picked up the burner phone he was currently using for Taurus and listened to the message he’d gotten Olivia to record. “This is Taurus and Associates.” He snickered – it made them sound so very professional, like they were a consulting firm instead of two college students trying not to get killed. “We will be unavailable for several days. Please send an email with your problem and someone will contact you when we are once again online.” 

He didn’t expect to get many calls. The only people who had this number were folks like his dad or his brother, and a couple of other hunters. It was important to him that the hunters not get used to hearing any one voice, which was why he didn’t give out the phone number. It was for emergencies only. That way if someone recognized his actual voice they wouldn’t put two and two together.

Someone knocked on the door. “Hey Winchester,” Ginny called. “Are you decent in there?”

“Come in and find out,” he challenged back.

The door opened quickly. “Sadly, all of your clothes seem to be on. How do you move in so many layers, Winchester? Honestly, I don’t understand how you manage to swing those long arms around like you do. If I wear more than, like, a tee-shirt I start to feel constricted.”

“Almost two decades of practice,” he smirked.

“Are you ready to go?” 

He gestured at his pack. “All set.” 

“Seriously? That’s all you’re bringing?” 

“I travel light, Ginny. Remember, I showed up here with everything I owned in two duffel bags.” He grinned at her. “This feels kind of extravagant, to be honest.” 

She shook her head. “Extravagant. How about ‘not going to die from cold.’” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Well don’t go looking to me to warm you up. Wait – that will be harder on me than on you. On second thought, you can look to me to warm you up all you want.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Ginny wasn’t subtle. She didn’t mean to be, either. Ginny knew what she wanted and she went for it. He kind of liked that about her. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have learned that he could actually have control over his own sexuality so he owed her a lot. “You, me, Harris and Liane are riding out with Brady.” 

“How’s everyone else getting there?” he wondered. Brady’s SUV was comfortable but with five people and their camping gear it might get a little cramped. 

“I think they got a couple of big vans from the Student Activities Office or something, maybe it was Res Life.” She shrugged, setting off a wave of motion that was almost certainly intentional. “This is going to be awesome, Sam.”

“Yeah. Awesome,” he grinned back. “Let’s head out.” 

They met up with the rest of the people from their car and that was that. He couldn’t believe it was that simple, but they were ready to leave with no more fuss than that. His friends were pretty amazing. “Where does everyone else stand?” he wanted to know, looking at the assorted bags and packs on the floor of Brady’s room. Did people really pack this much crap for a simple weekend trip? This didn’t even include food! 

“I think the first van already left, but they were the ones who were going to do the grocery shopping so that’s fine. Hideki’s parents run a bunch of restaurants, he’s a good person to have in charge of that stuff,” Harris informed them. “The rest are loading up. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to head on out. It’s a long weekend; let’s make the most of it.” 

Sam put his pack on and grabbed one of the random bags from the pile; maybe they had overpacked but what the hell. This wasn’t a hunt. It was a fun weekend with friends and that was all. He’d done the research. There was no evidence of anything at all in the park they were heading to and this was just going to be a good time, nothing less and nothing more. 

They headed out of the dorm and down to the parking lot, where Sam’s practice with loading the Impala proved invaluable as all of the baggage managed to get squeezed into the smaller SUV with plenty of room to see out the back. Brady gave a low, sexy grin. “That’s a gift, Winchester,” he admired. 

And then they were on the road. They had a bit of traffic getting out of Palo Alto but not more than expected. Sam, with his absurdly long legs, got shotgun and no one objected. The drive took about an hour, which was fine – it was far enough to be scenic, close enough that he didn’t feel like he was going off on some idiotic hunt. He still wasn’t entirely sold on the whole “camping for fun” thing, but he forced his mind to relax. This was going to be good. He had his friends.

He’d worked incredibly hard and he’d earned a bit of a break. This was something normal people did, right? They went on adventures with their buddies – real adventures, exploring in a safe and sane fashion with people who enjoyed their company and who didn’t care that they were unclean.

When they arrived at the state park they found that the first van had already checked in, which was fantastic. They were able to drive right up to the campsite they’d reserved and set up. Sam set up his little tent a little ways away from the others – not that there was much to set up, these things went up with basically a shake and a couple of stakes, and went to help the rest of them get set up too. When the third vehicle arrived everyone pitched in to help them get settled in and pitch their tents, and they managed to get dinner on the table before sundown. 

They sat around the fire ring after dinner. The ones who had paired off sat in their pairs. The ones who had not sat in clumps. Sam’s clump included pretty much everyone from his car, which was nice. Liane supported herself on Sam’s legs; Ginny leaned against his side and draped her legs over Brady’s lap. Harris’ head lay in Liane’s lap, which Sam hadn’t really seen coming but hey – she was allowing it and they were both brilliant and fun so why not? Sutter, who had the room nearest to the elevator in Sam’s wing, had brought a guitar. His repertoire seemed to consist entirely of ballads, most of which Sam even knew, and everyone sang along. 

Later everyone went to bed. He settled himself into his sleeping bag and pulled out a book of lore and a flashlight. It was far too early for him to sleep, and he was certainly no stranger to reading creepy things by flashlight. He got about an hour into his text – an old Church document about countering witchcraft – when he heard someone creeping around outside his tent. His hand reached under his pillow to grab his gun.

“Sam?” came Ginny’s voice.

“I’m awake,” he whispered back, putting his gun into his bag. He could still reach it if he needed to but it wouldn’t be immediately obvious to the redhead. He did not need that kind of hassle. “C’mon in.” The tent unzipped. “What’s up, Gin?” 

She smirked. “You, if I do my job right. A girl has to stay warm somehow.” 

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning. She’d made her intentions pretty clear when she’d come to fetch him from his room. “Must be pretty chilly up there with no bed roll or anything,” he commented, pulling back the covers to give her access. He put the book on top of his bag. It wasn’t like he was looking at it for any kind of time-sensitive reason, not for a case or anything. It could wait. 

She took the time to strip off her shirt as she sank down onto the ground. “What, no air mattress or pad or anything?”

“I thought we were supposed to be roughing it,” he laughed darkly. 

“I’ll show you roughing it,” she retorted, biting down on his neck. And she did. 

She stayed the night but rose early, returning back to her own tent in search of shower materials. That was okay; Sam wanted to get a run in before other people got up. He wasn’t just here to shoot the breeze and bond with his fellow freshmen, although that was part of the appeal. He’d come to see the redwoods. He suited up and went out to go examine the local flora by the light of the rising sun. 

Sam had been forced to run on some intense trails, with dire punishments to follow if his approach could be discerned. He had no problem keeping silent on the trails he followed now, which meant he could appreciate the beauty of this place in this moment. There was the slight fog of the morning, winding around the lower parts of the brush like a tattered old shroud. There was the way that the rising sun glowed red and gold just beyond the trees. The birds and the squirrels began their day with bright, sharp chatter that played a kind of melody and counter-melody to each other, dancing across the air. He inhaled the scent of the awakening earth, memorizing the way that the combination of soil and decomposing leaves here in this place differed from how Freetown State Forest smelled up in Massachusetts or how the Steinberg Nature Park in Blue Earth smelled when he used to go visit Pastor Jim or how the Black Hills in South Dakota smelled on an early fall day. And he could appreciate it all without human interaction.

It wasn’t that Sam didn’t like company. He did. The whole point of coming to Stanford was that he wanted to get away from his father and live among actual people, in a safe and stable environment, and form connections to other human beings. It just so happened that he wanted to enjoy nature without being forced to destroy parts of it. Out here he could feel the presence of God. 

His father had never really had much to say about God one way or another. He was willing enough to use the trappings of religion as it suited the job but actually living by faith was something else. Dean was an outright atheist. Sam was a theology major, among other things. It wasn’t that he was going to be a priest or anything – far from it – but he firmly believed in the idea of balance. Demons probably existed – they’d tried to grab him when he was a kid, hadn’t they? Or so Dad’s journal had said. And that meant that Hell existed. There wasn’t much Sam could do about either demons or Hell. Evil most certainly existed; his family fought what they defined as evil and Sam looked it in the eye every day. If evil existed, there must be good. Good meant heaven, and angels, and almost certainly God. 

He thought back to one of the stories he’d heard, about how the angels had been asked to worship humanity over God. That was what had gotten Lucifer expelled, his refusal to do so. Was that an Islamic story? Had it come from someplace else? He should look that one up; it was probably going to be on his final exam. At any rate, when he looked up at the lightening sky he could certainly grasp the Morningstar’s reluctance. If God had wrought this beautiful creation and all humanity had done was to pick away at it, humanity didn’t really rate worship. 

Sometimes he wondered if maybe Lucifer didn’t get a bum rap. Of course, he’d created the demons and introduced sin to humanity so maybe his temper tantrum had gone a little far. 

He found a sturdy branch – not on a redwood, but on a much smaller and younger tree – to do some pull-ups from out here in private. He hated working out in front of people. He did it at the gym because he had to but he truly loathed having other people’s eyes on him as he went through his paces, like he was a piece of meat on display or something. He guessed the birds could watch or something. They didn’t comment one way or another. When he was done he made his way back to camp.

Someone had picked up a propane-powered in-line shower, which was a real godsend. He made use of it quickly and joined Harris and Ginny’s roommate Vicki in getting breakfast ready. When breakfast was done people split off to do their own things. Sam agreed to take a group down to look at the old Page Mill, which was going to take a good long time. Why he was supposed to “lead” them he didn’t know – he’d never been here before either. It had been Vicki’s idea, actually. Whatever. He made sure that his ten hikers – Brady and Liane among them – had plenty of water and they set out. 

The hike was decent – he wouldn’t have called it strenuous but a couple of the more sedentary participants wanted to rest before heading back. That was fine. Brady beckoned him down a side trail, ostensibly to look for evidence of more buildings around the mill. Once they were out of sight and hearing his real intentions became clear and they engaged in a furtive make-out session that that had the rest of the hikers looking for them and left Sam having the absolute best kind of horrible hike back to camp. He kind of wished Brady were out at school – it would be so much easier. But it wasn’t on him to be critical of anyone for keeping secrets, after all, or even like they were actually dating. Just… you know. Screwing around. Which was fine. Mostly. 

They made it back to camp in time for the people who had volunteered to be part of dinner to fulfill their obligations. Harris fell asleep on one of the logs by the fire, so Sam and Brady amused themselves by balancing pinecones on the smaller man’s shoulders, limbs and head. When dinner was ready and people were called to “table” Harris woke with a start and all of the pinecones fell to the ground, doubling both perpetrators (as well as no few bystanders) over with laughter. After dinner they sat around the campfire and sang old summer camp songs. Sam couldn’t sing along; he didn’t know any of the words. He thought he’d been to a day camp once, about a thousand years ago. There had been a water sprite maybe? Whatever. He could bask in the camaraderie of others, though, and he could tend the fire.

Eventually people went to bed. Sam stayed by the fire until Brady and Ginny came to grab him. “Want to see what a real air mattress feels like?” she smirked up at him.

He caught Brady’s eye. “Sure,” he replied with an easy, quiet grin. 

Sam hadn’t known these people long. He didn’t know what they would do if lives were on the line. Part of what he loved about Stanford was that he really didn’t need to know those things. Maybe he didn’t know the words to summer camp songs. Maybe he was the only one who’d lived out of a car. He was still good enough that they wanted him here with them. 

***John ***

John considered himself to have made three wise decisions in his lifetime. The first was taking the boys on the road. There were demons after Sam for reasons that he still didn’t understand entirely, and by killing Mary they’d proven that they were willing to do anything to get through the people who stood in their way. Taking the boys on the road had kept them off their trail, kept them safer. 

The second wise decision was whatever he’d done to attach Dean so firmly to him. Sam was a loss, a complete waste of time and space, but Dean – there was a son to be proud of. Dean was loyal, Dean was obedient, Dean was a damn fine hunter. Dean had been a better shot than John himself before he was what, ten? 

And sure, he hadn’t meant for Dean to cut Sam out like he had but he’d be lying if he’d said he wasn’t proud of the fact that Dean hadn’t even questioned it. John had given an order and Dean had obeyed and that was all there was to it. He still couldn’t identify exactly what he’d done to engender that kind of adoration in the boy but it had been wise of him, whatever it had been.

And the third decision had been getting the hell out of California after the Piper incident. It was as though crossing the state line had pushed him over the edge from a hard but good man into a raging asshole and even he knew it. He’d gone to Stanford to try to reason with Sam, try to bring him back into the fold, and wound up threatening him and trying to batter his door down in an attempt to do what exactly? Kill him? Kidnap him? Taurus, the faceless scholar that had been helping them out on hunts, had accused him of hunting his son and honestly that was how that whole scene had probably played out from the outside. He’d spewed a truckload of homophobic filth at his hunting partner at the time, and wasn’t that just absurd? He might not approve of such things for soldiers on the battlefield, but what did he care what civilians did with themselves in their free time? 

No, everything about California pushed every button John Winchester had. He should have walked away from that mission, let Leeson and Taurus handle it themselves even if the guy insisted he wasn’t a hunter. At least he’d managed to avoid getting killed by the thing or going to jail. That was no mean feat and both seemed to be thanks to Taurus. 

He drove to Las Cruces, New Mexico and did research for a case. There had been a sudden spike in eating disorders there that caught his attention, and while eating disorders weren’t usually supernatural or of particular interest to him these stood out. For one thing the media rarely covered anorexia in anything other than a sensationalistic way, and the articles seemed to be raising legitimate concern. They were covering the issue like they would cover any disease – noticing “clusters” of the disorder popping up, just as there might be “clusters” of influenza or polio. Furthermore, one of the papers even made note of a complaint that one of the girls – all of the victims were girls, between fourteen and sixteen – made: “Everything I eat is filled with dirt. I just can’t eat.” 

It sounded like something an evil spirit might cause. It was worth checking out and it got him the hell out of California. He knew that the date was getting closer and closer to the anniversary, so having something to occupy his brain was probably better than letting the dark thoughts come and eat away at him. 

Dean came eventually. He seemed troubled but he waited for his father to prompt him before asking any questions. “What’s on your mind, Dean?” he finally asked, after describing the symptoms of the local case. 

“Did you ever encounter a pukwudgie when you were in Massachusetts, sir?” he asked. “No, Dean, I didn’t. I’ve heard of them but I’ve never met anyone who’s encountered one and lived to tell the tale. I guess you’re the first.” 

Dean pressed his lips together. “The, uh, the pukwudgie who had me… he remembered Sam.”

John stopped what he was doing. Dean’s bout with the quasi-demonic creature had been harrowing enough. “What do you mean it ‘remembered’ Sam?” he growled. “There’s no way that little shirker took on a pukwudgie and won. You couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I don’t think six hunters together could do it. Whatever it told you was just trying to mess with your mind, Dean.” 

“Yes, sir.” The boy looked away.

Maybe leaving Dean alone in Fall River had been a bad idea. “You’re sure you’re well now?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just tired. I’m cured, just… tired. That’s a lot of driving, you know?” He grinned weakly. “So tell me, what did I miss in California? Movie stars? Beaches? Girls?” 

John snorted. Dean would be fine. They needed to keep their minds on the hunt, not worry about what the no-good younger member of the family had been doing when he’d been sixteen. It wasn’t like they could do anything about it anyway. “The Pied Piper.”

“Seriously? The Pied Piper?” He gave a laugh that only sounded a little bit forced. “Apple? Cherry? It was California so I know it wasn’t pecan.” 

They threw themselves into researching this new case. Interestingly enough when they went to investigate the hospitals where the girls were taken as their disorders took hold they found that even the IVs through which their nutrients were delivered became contaminated with dirt. It was easily the strangest thing that John had ever heard of, and the cases kept piling up. Dean wanted to call Taurus for his help but John would have none of it. “What do you want to do, adopt him to replace your brother?” he snarled drunkenly as November 2 loomed. “We can do this on our own, and don’t you forget it!” 

November 2 came. John made his journal entry and then he went to a bar. He didn’t really remember leaving the bar. He did vaguely remember waking up in a jail cell briefly. The next thing he remembered was waking up sometime on the afternoon of November 3 in his bed in the motel, fully dressed with a hangover to beat the band and fifteen stitches in his left hand. Dean was there of course, with a fresh shiner and a bottle of ibuprofen. He didn’t say anything. Neither did John. 

Dean went into the hospital disguised as an orderly to get statements from the girls themselves. That was what broke the case. Every one of them said that they’d had a man in a large black hat approach and make unwelcome advances. They’d rejected the advances only to have the man continue to pursue them, singing so loud that they couldn’t sleep. That was when their food had begun to become contaminated as well. One or two of the girls admitted that the man had an accent and that they could pick out a Spanish word or two in the songs he sang, but that was it. 

Back at the motel Dean did some poking around on the Internet. The Internet really wasn’t John’s kind of thing but hey – it was the way the world was going these days. After another day or two they found a legend that might fit their creature: a Guatemalan story about El Sombreron, a demonic spirit that stalked young girls who rejected its advances and contaminated their food. The girls could rid themselves of his influence by cutting their hair off and getting it blessed – although good luck getting a priest in modern New Mexico to bless a wad of hacked-off hair. 

John frowned at the page Dean pulled up. “We could try consecrated iron rounds,” he suggested. “It says here that he probably just doesn’t like the holy water.” 

Dean considered. “It’s worth a shot.”

John scowled. “Did you do that on purpose?” 

The blond smirked. “Yeah, I kind of did.” 

Fortunately Dean had given his number to one of the victims – remarkably not in an attempt to get into her pants, because even Dean’s lechery knew some bounds, but in case she had any more problems with the creature or could think of anything to add. She called Dean that same day to say that the same guy in the black hat had menaced her sister, and the sister had called her in the hospital to tell her that she’d found dirt in her own food. The attack had only come that day so if they hurried they would be able to get to the house that night and intercept El Sombreron. 

They arrived at the house and concealed themselves in the bushes outside the younger daughter’s room just before sundown. When the sun had begun to set they heard the sound of huge, jangling boots. As the man approached they could see that he seemed to be their guy: very short, dressed in all black with his face concealed by the brim of his huge black hat. He wore a massive, shiny belt and he carried a large guitar, which he un-slung from his shoulders. 

John looked at Dean. Dean looked at John. “Um,” the son said. 

The goblin startled when he noticed the hunters. “You have come to steal my woman!” he accused. He strummed his guitar, knocking Dean to the ground.

John shook his head. He’d just gotten done with a music-wielding creature; he still had a cast on his damn arm because of it. “Oh hell no,” he growled. He pulled his revolver from its holster and fired three consecrated iron shots into the creature’s heart, or at least where he assumed a heart would be on a vaguely humanoid creature.

It worked. Of course it did. He’d been doing this for a long time. “Grab the other arm, Dean,” he ordered quietly as lights began to turn on in the houses around them. “We need to get someplace safe to salt and burn the body.” 

They tossed the corpse under a tarp in the back of the pickup and sped away before the police could arrive. The torched the body on a golf course, went back to the motel, cleaned up and still had time to hit a bar to scare up some cash. Yeah, Dean was something to be proud of all right. He’d ben the one to find out what the damn thing was, and he’d been the one to figure out where it would be too. Dean was shaping up into a damn fine hunter. He was everything that a father could want in a son. 

They managed to hustle a decent amount of cash without anyone being the wiser and headed back to the motel. The next morning he greeted his son with coffee and doughnuts. “I found us another case.” 

Dean blinked. “Uh… okay.” 

“That a problem, Dean?” He knew it wasn’t. Dean wasn’t like that. Still, he didn’t want the boy to get complacent. 

“No sir. It’s just that we just finished a case… like, yesterday… and you’re injured…” 

“I can obviously shoot with one hand, boy. Seems there’s a mothman up in Waseca, Minnesota. It’s a good opportunity to stop in and see Pastor Jim.” 

Dean’s eyes were bleary with sleep and maybe a bit of a hangover but they weren’t too bleary to catch him out. “Dad, we’re going to Pastor Jim’s for Thanksgiving anyway. What’s the rush?” 

“Can’t a man want to see his old friend?” he asked innocently. “Also, Taurus might have done something to my computer that won’t get fixed until I’m in Blue Earth.” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Dean shrugged. “All right. Let me shower and I’ll be ready to go.” 

That was the great thing about Dean. He was always willing to just… go with it. Always had been. He’d never leaned on John for longer terms in any given town or to stay longer at one school or another, because he had his priorities straight. The hunt was what was important. Mary was what was important. School was a waste of time, really. Friends were just dead weight holding you back. Look at them now – they would be out of here in ten minutes tops, with whining, no complaining, no stomping of feet or sulking or “Look, just leave me behind here and I’ll catch you up once this project is done.” 

The hunt had gone a lot smoother, a lot faster with just Dean. There hadn’t been any balking, no second-guessing, no snot-nosed little punk demanding that he explain himself. Just perfect love and perfect trust. They rolled out nine minutes later, Dean’s hair still damp from the shower. 

***Dean ***

The drive up to Minnesota would take three days. Dean still wasn’t used to driving solo. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before, even when Sammy was still with them. He’d hated it then, too, but at least he could call the kid and talk to him. Now that wasn’t even an option. On the one hand he could play whatever music he wanted, however loud he wanted and no one was going to be sitting there bitching about it. He could fart at will with no one to complain about how his digestive system was a pretext for invading Middle Eastern countries. He could keep his eyes on the road without someone babbling endlessly about some tiresome piece of useless trivia, some crap that no one really needed to know about like irrigation methods before European settlement, and how Sammy would have managed to figure that crap out in the short time they’d have been there would have completely escaped Dean’s grasp but why he’d have bothered when he could have been drinking with Dean in the bar was an even bigger concern. 

Of course, it wasn’t as much fun to play the same five tapes over and over without having someone to be annoyed by it. In fact, without the complaining it was kind of dull. And Dean couldn’t help but reflect that boyish fart jokes made long road trips less of a chore. And maybe no one needed to know the crap that Sammy could spout like he could, but it ate up a lot of time. And he could turn that big old brain of his to research just as easily and he did, too – he’d have found out what was up with the stupid guy in the bad mariachi suit in like half a minute and gone back to looking up agricultural facts. And maybe Dean never got why he cared about that other stuff but it wasn’t like John would have really encouraged him to go out and have fun anyway. 

Well, he could solve some of the mileage issue. Calling Sammy was off the table however badly he wanted to. Dad would know. He could always check Dean’s call history. He wasn’t above that kind of thing. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t have other contacts, though. He grabbed his phone and called Bobby Singer. “Singer,” the scrap dealer grunted. 

“Bobby! Hey, it’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Dean! Good to hear your voice, boy. I heard you weren’t doing too hot.” Bobby always sounded happy to hear from him. “Hope you’re doing better.” 

“Yeah, a little pukwudgie poison can’t keep a guy like me down,” he cracked. 

“I can’t say as I’m really familiar with pukwudgies, Dean. They’re kind of localized. What did you do to get rid of it?” 

“Turns out that this particular pukwudgie was willing to give me an antidote because he knew… well, he knew this researcher Dad and I ‘ve been working with. Pastor Jim knows him, a guy working out of California. Guy by the name of Taurus.” He almost let Sammy’s connection to the monster slip, but he bit it back. If Bobby knew that Sammy was consorting with monsters he’d join Dad in hunting him down. Hunters didn’t hang around with monsters, they didn’t get to be besties with monsters, they killed them or they died trying. End of story. “I’m not sure what kind of connection but whatever. I’m alive, not tempting fate again.” 

“Good plan, kid. What’s on your mind?”

“Can’t I make a social call?” “You could.” The implication was plain. It kind of hurt. 

“Honestly, I am. It’s just a social call this time, Bobby. Dad and I took out something interesting in New Mexico yesterday, didn’t know if you’d heard of it. It was something called an El Sombreron.” 

The old man paused. “What’s that, like ‘the hat guy’ or somethin’?” 

Dean smiled. “Something like that, yeah. It’s a monster that goes after pretty young girls and makes it impossible for them to eat or sleep. The symptoms are clusters of anorexia and insomnia. He likes to go after young teenaged girls with long hair and pretty eyes; the girls will complain that their food is dirty.” 

He could almost see the bearded man shaking his head. “Where did you come up with this?” 

“Dad found us the case. I did the research.” 

“All by yourself? Well ain’t that somethin’.”

“We took a shot and it turns out consecrated iron kills it.” 

“Consecrated iron is a good cure-all, no mistake.” Another phone rang in the background. “I gotta go, that’s my ‘fed’ line. Good to hear your voice, Dean.” 

“Good to talk to you too, Bobby.”

They stopped for the night in Amarillo. As usual, they went to a bar to hustle up some cash. Two gas-guzzling vehicles weren’t going to fuel themselves after all, and the credit card scams only went so far. Dean managed to haul in a decent amount at pool, although Sammy’d always been better at pool than he had. (Dad had never known about Sammy’s abilities as a pool shark. Now he never would.) He did better at poker. Dad rocked the dartboard, also taking his share of the poker winnings. Dad left with one of the waitresses at about eleven, much to Dean’s chagrin. It worked out okay, though, because he met up with Allison at about the same time. Allison was just about as tall as he was, she had brown hair and tanned skin and her hazel eyes twinkled in the reflected light of the neon signs. She took him back to her place for the night. Not much sleep was had but he made her breakfast in the morning. 

They pushed through to Concordia, Kansas the next day and if that wasn’t seven hours and thirty-eight minutes of the most stultifying, dull drive Dean had ever been on in his life he would be hard pressed to find its match. There was corn. Acres and acres of corn. Why there needed to be so very much corn he had no freaking clue. He called up Caleb to pass the time, not that Caleb was doing anything better. Caleb was busy messing around down in San Antonio. He had plenty to say on the subject of Dean’s pukwudgie encounter, though. Most of it involved chortling. “The hell were you doing in Fall River by yourself, man? There ain’t nothing in the Bridgewater Triangle that a man should be taking on alone!” 

“Yeah, well, I was alone, what did you expect me to do? Sit on my thumb?” he retorted. “Besides, I managed to get plenty done on my own. I took out a black dog up in Scituate by myself, that’s not too shabby.”

“If by ‘not too shabby’ you mean ‘damn stupid’ then sure,’ his friend shot back. “That’s a great way to get your sorry ass killed and you know it.” 

“It’s not like there was anyone else to have my back, Caleb.” 

“Dean, I know that you know better than to go doing stupid crap like that. You’re better than that. Sammy’d be livid if you got yourself killed on something like that.”

“If he gave a crap he wouldn’t have taken off.”

“Now Dean, you know it wasn’t like that.” 

“It was exactly like that, Caleb. His job was to have my back and he walked away. That was the whole reason he was here and he just walked away.”

Caleb was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry you see it that way, Dean.” He fell silent again for a moment. “But you’re still here, so some good came out of it, right? And you got the hell out of Fall River. Them Fall River girls are like quicksand – you don’t know you’re stuck until you’re waist deep in it.” 

“They can be a handful,” he laughed, thinking about Brandi. “Nice girls, though. Smart.”

“That’s the problem, Dean! You get attached and the next thing you know you can’t leave!” 

“Nah, you know me better. I’m married to my Baby anyway.” 

“Your relationship with that car is unhealthy, Dean. I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen shows on television about that kind of thing. You have a problem.” 

“I don’t have a problem, Caleb. Baby’s the only one who understands me.”

“That’s the problem right there, man. And one of these days you’re going to get a burn in a tender location from that car’s tailpipe and I am not going to be the one putting the burn cream on you.” 

He blinked. “That’s, uh, that’s a really repulsive thought.”

“A cautionary tale, my friend. A cautionary tale.” 

They rolled into Concordia and checked into another motel. “You smell like hippies,” John objected as they dealt with the salt lines. 

Dean grinned shamelessly. “That would all be thanks to Allison,” he reported. “Nice girl, but had a thing for the ‘good old days’ if you know what I mean. Beaded curtains, sandalwood soap, the whole nine. But flexible – very flexible. And enthusiastic.”

Dad scowled. “You ever think about leaving anything to the imagination, Dean?” 

He thought about it. “Not really, sir. I mean, if you hadn’t taken the waitress back to the motel I wouldn’t have had to make alternate arrangements. So really, you have only yourself to blame, sir.” 

The older Winchester growled. “Don’t you sass me, boy.” 

They got dinner at a typical diner, another of the thousands of such diners that they’d gone to in Dean’s lifetime. That was fine by him. He liked diner food. He could eat a burger and fries every day for the rest of his life and he would die a happy man. He didn’t even really need to order for himself either. Dad ordered for him because Dad knew what he wanted, Dad knew what he liked, Dad knew how he liked it. He could just sit back and relax, observe the people around them. 

For nineteen years he’d had to check each person they’d seen, to see if they might be a threat to Sammy. Sometimes they had been. Dean himself had been forced to kill a man because he’d been out hunting the kid, back before the kid had even had his eighth birthday. The guy had (apparently) been a normal human man, a hunter like Dean, like Dad. He’d just seen Sammy as fair game – why no one knew – and hell if that hadn’t ramped up both John’s and Dean’s paranoia. Between the teacher and the hunter anyone could have been after Sammy, and even with him gone now that was a hard habit to break. He found himself examining everyone who came into the diner now, just as he always had. The gaggle of little old ladies out for dinner without their husbands? Why couldn’t one of them be a demon in disguise? None of them showed any interest in the Winchesters but that didn’t mean that they weren’t secretly examining them, looking for the missing piece no less obvious for his absence. That trucker in the corner – if that bulge in his pocket wasn’t a handgun he should probably go see a doctor. 

Their meals arrived. Dean ate his burger, rejoicing in its perfection. Dad got his order right every time. The old man himself got meatloaf today. Dean wasn’t sure why. No one actually liked meatloaf. Apparently it was what John wanted though, and he wasn’t going to question it. They left without dessert – Dad almost never got dessert, and Dean wasn’t going to argue – and went back to the motel before going out to another bar. What else were they going to do? The motel room was tiny, the television reception crappy and they didn’t exactly have a hunt to prepare for the next day. 

Dean played a little pool, made a bit of cash. His mind was less on the pool table than on Bernadette. Bernadette was the opposite of Allison in almost every way. Where Allison had attracted him with her wit Bernadette made her intentions clear with her hands and her mouth, and Dean couldn’t see a valid reason to object. They knew what they wanted from each other right away. 

She brought him home to a small apartment over a bakery, sat him down on an overstuffed chair and climbed right up on top of him. They didn’t exchange a lot of words. That was okay. With Bernadette on his body his family couldn’t be on his mind, and that was pretty much what he was going for tonight. He treated her to breakfast the next morning, finding nothing in her refrigerator but expired luncheon meat and a soon-to-be-unsafe jug of milk. Maybe she was at home about as much as he was. Whatever. It wasn’t really his business to go poking around.

Dad had already left by the time that he got back to the room, leaving him to check them out. Apparently he’d helpfully run up some pay-per-view charges overnight, both boxing and porn. Great. Dean grumbled while he shelled out for his dad’s entertainment, trying not to think about his father’s choices. He’d probably only had them on as background noise, watching for no purpose other than to run up charges to get at Dean for leaving without permission anyway. It wasn’t like they were on a case or doing anything; Dean was an adult man with needs and urges. If John had told him that he needed him to stay in he’d have done so.

The ride up to Pastor Jim’s was just as boring as the ride to Concordia had been, and involved just as much corn. Well, most of the corn on this leg of the trip was dead now, it being Veteran’s Day weekend and all. There wasn’t anything but brown vegetation and strip malls the entire route, and wasn’t that depressing? Maybe it would have been faster to take the interstate, but that wasn’t how John Winchester had trained his boys. He’d taught them to stick to the back roads, to the “scenic” routes. It taught them more about the lay of the land than the shiny, nondescript interstates did, and given the prevalence of state troopers and cameras on the main roads these days it was a good way to stay off the radar too. John was nothing if not careful about staying off the radar. It was a good thing, too – apparently there was a warrant out for his arrest in California, because breaking onto the Stanford campus and trying to take out your estranged son was frowned upon in that state.

He pulled into the rectory parking lot just as the sun was going down, a case of beer in the passenger seat where Sammy should have been. Dad was already here, of course. The lights were already on. The young man steeled himself. He knew this was going to be difficult but he hadn’t really anticipated just how much of a challenge it would be. He still hadn’t gotten used to visiting Pastor Jim’s as an only child before. Of course Sammy was still out there somewhere, but for all intents and purposes Dean was the only Winchester scion left and being here without his beanstalk of a brother beside him really brought all of that home. Ordinarily the kid would be perking up right about now, getting all kinds of excited to go in and see his mentor and frolic in the library and bury himself amongst the old tomes and whatever. Right now it was just Dean, getting up and trudging to the kitchen door. No front doors for Winchesters, they didn’t rate.

Jim Murphy greeted him with a wide smile and hug. He wasn’t much older than Dad but somehow he just seemed older to Dean. Maybe it was the whole “man of the cloth thing. “Dean!” he said, a hand on his cheek. “It’s good to see you, son.”

“’S good to see you, sir. How’s the parish?” He moved inside as the hunting cleric took the beer from him. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. For a moment he looked impossibly old. After a second, though, he straightened up and looked like the great John Winchester again. 

“Can’t complain. Sit down; dinner’s just about ready. Nothing fancy, just beans and rice but hey – it’s a meal, right?” He smiled.

Dean did sit down. The table was large enough to seat eight. Dean had never been here when it had seated fewer than four. Now it seemed absurd to cluster only three men around this end of the table like refugees in a bombed-out building. The priest made small talk, as was only appropriate. The parish was well. They had their bingo. The parishoners prayed, as was their wont. Dean had never seen much point in praying but if that was what got them through the night he wasn’t going to begrudge them. Sammy had been a big one for prayer. 

After dinner they shot the breeze a bit – they spoke about El Sombreron, because the more people who knew how to take that son of a bitch out the better. Dad spoke about the Pied Piper, which sounded like a whole great big giant mess. He was able to supply some of the information from Taurus’ side of things too, explaining the scholar’s thought process and how he’d done the research to figure out who had summoned by figuring out who had the most motivation. 

At this kind of distance John was able to be calmer about it, although he still scowled and cursed as he objected to not being kept in the loop about those thoughts himself. Jim chuckled. “He was working other cases at the time,” the priest observed. “Like the pukwudgie case. And he does have a day job, you know. A few of them apparently.” 

“That’s my issue with him,” John exploded, standing up and pacing. “I don’t like his priorities. He should be focusing on saving lives, not on whatever it is that he does at Stanford. People are dying and folks like Taurus are more worried about getting their bits wet than getting rid of evil.”

“Why can’t he do both, John?” Jim wanted to know, sitting back. “Most hunters have day jobs. I do. Bobby Singer does. Bill Harvelle did. Most folks stick to one geography and worry about keeping that space safe, and enjoy life in the world they preserve the rest of the time. I know that’s not the life you’ve chosen for yourself or for Dean, but why do you object so strongly to it for Taurus?”

“Because I saw him, Jim. He’s a young, able-bodied man. He was more than capable of jumping in when it counted. He reminded me of… He reminded me of Sam, and it makes me angry.” John sighed. “Let’s just… I know he’s a friend of yours, Jim. I don’t think we’re about to agree on this.” 

“Probably not.” Jim gave half a grin. “Why don’t we see about this computer issue of yours?” 

John went to fetch his laptop from his guest room and Dean followed the priest into the office. In a moment they’d booted up the laptop, revealing an image of a hard-bodied young man rimming another hard-bodied young man in bright, bold living color. Dean blushed and looked away. Jim covered his mouth with one hand. “I, uh, I see. Let’s call Taurus and see what we can’t do about this.” He put the phone on speaker and dialed. The call went to voice mail after three rings. . “This is Taurus and Associates.” The voice was female, soft and even – very professional. Taurus sounded like a consulting firm, very white-collar. He didn’t sound like the kind of guy who would be caught dead in a biker bar hustling pool and picking up waitresses. “We will be unavailable for several days. Please send an email with your problem and someone will contact you when we are once again online.” The voice didn’t belong to Browning, either. Either things had gone south with the two of them, or he had a stable or something, or yeah – Taurus actually had a whole consulting operation going on back in California. Wasn’t that something to think about? “Taurus, this is Jim Murphy. I’ve got John Winchester and his laptop here. You promised to fix it when he got to Blue Earth. Well, he’s here and waiting for you, so if you could please give me a call when you get this.” 

Dad’s face was cartoon-scarlet and his eyes looked like they might pop right out of his head. “I’m going to bed,” he growled, and stalked off. 

“Sorry about that,” Dean muttered, still not looking at the screen. 

“I can see why he’s irritated. Although I honestly don’t think that he gets to decide that Taurus can’t have a Saturday night to himself. I know that’s not how he raised you boys, but –“

“Hey, listen. Dad had his reasons for the way he raised us, okay?” Dean interrupted as Jim closed the laptop. “There’s nothing wrong with it. What we do is important, okay?” 

“No one’s denying that, Dean.” 

“Yeah, well, Sammy is.” 

Jim sighed. “Sam isn’t… Sam doesn’t have the same motivation that the two of you do. He never knew her. He doesn’t know her as someone beautiful and wonderful and good who was taken away; he only knows her as an excuse for things to be bad now. But it doesn’t matter now, Dean. He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back. You’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You’re a good son, Dean.” 

“Damn right I am.”

Jim’s answering smile was gentle, but not exactly happy. Dean went to bed not long after, upstairs in the tiny guest room under the eaves where he could almost swear he could still see Sammy’s ghost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam decides he's not a big fan of owls. John thinks about moths. Dean thinks about biology.

***Sam ***

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Sam did not wake up with the sun. He felt momentarily bad about that – he shouldn’t let himself get complacent. After all, who knew when Dad would come and try again? But his eyes had opened with the sun, and he’d found himself half on the air mattress with his head pillowed on Brady’s chest and with Ginny curled into his side like some kind of red-headed cat, and he decided that he frankly did not give a crap about running right then. Plus, his nocturnal adventures had left him in need of a little more sleep than he was necessarily used to and that was okay. So he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

It was after nine by the time the sounds of breakfast happening made him stir again, and Brady even beat him to the punch. The blond kissed him deeply when he saw Sam’s eyes flutter open. Apparently he didn’t care if Ginny knew he was bisexual, then. Well, that made sense. It wasn’t like they limited themselves to only touching her. “Good morning, Winchester,” he greeted when he got his tongue back into his own mouth.

“Hey,” he greeted as Ginny stirred to life beside him. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Not too badly,” his companion smirked. “I did okay until someone started speaking in tongues in his sleep.” 

He grimaced and sat up. Maybe Dad had been right and he should just keep to himself. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

“Shut up, Brady,” Ginny ordered, swatting at the pre-med student and pulling herself up on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before. What language was that, anyway?”

“I don’t know, I was asleep,” he pointed out reasonably. “Probably Latin.”

Brady laughed and shook his head. “You have got to be the only guy I’ve ever met who dreams in Latin.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Dad kind of drummed it into me, you know?” Anger flared. Dad had programmed him to be a freak before he’d even known enough to be aware of it and then he’d tried to use it against him, to keep him in the fold. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Ginny scolded. “Obviously something was on your mind and we didn’t do a good enough job of distracting you. Let’s see what we can’t do about that right now, shall we?” She leaned on him until his torso landed back on the mattress – not that he resisted all that strenuously, especially not when Brady got in on the act.

“We’ll miss breakfast,” he pointed out when Ginny paused for breath. 

“Like you were going to be all that keen on bacon anyway,” Brady scoffed.

Eventually they emerged from the tent. Sam let Brady have the first shower, because he was a gentleman damn it, while Ginny took the women’s side of the setup. (Who knew that people could actually bring that sort of thing with them? Showers and stoves and air mattresses, tents and bacon and eggs – he’d stayed in motels that were less comfortable and luxurious.) When his turn came round he washed up quickly and rejoined the rest of the group. 

A few people wanted to play Frisbee; Brady decided to join them. Sam opted for another hike, one of the more challenging loops available. Harris and Liane joined him, as did Vicki and Claire. A few others took less difficult routes; some others opted for lounging or singing or whatever. It was the last full day of their mini-break and people wanted to make the most of it. 

Sam took his group down to a breathtakingly beautiful waterfall. While the trip was kind of long and left even him a little sore by the end, the view made the workout worthwhile. Claire took pictures; she was actually a pretty good photographer and was always looking to pad out her portfolio. She used both a film and a digital camera, and from what Sam could tell the digital camera got some amazing shots of the falls and the redwoods. She got some pictures of them too, both posed and candids. What she wanted with them Sam didn’t know; the last person who’d wanted a picture of him had been… well, had been the pukwudgie, really. Still, she promised to give them all copies so that was something. He guessed. 

They hiked back to camp in time to get the last of lunch. He decided that he was still feeling a little sleepy and went to have a nap in his tent. It was his vacation too, after all; the first vacation he could remember that didn’t amount to more of a sick leave than anything else. He curled up on top of his bedroll and closed his eyes, letting sleep overtake him without much of a fight. 

He awoke to screaming. He sat bolt up right, grabbing for his gun. He tucked it into the small of his back, where the layers of shirts Ginny had complained about before they’d left Stanford would conceal it, before he unzipped his tent and stuck his head out. That was way too much screaming for a simple wild animal attack or even for someone to have fallen into the campfire. 

When he saw the state of the camp he could easily see why people were screaming. Six creatures swooped down from the sky onto the group, emitting piercing shrieks as they descended with greyish-black feet with sharp, pincer-like talons. They were easily the size of a normal human man, maybe even a little bigger, with huge wide wings and owl-like faces and feathers. They dove like birds of prey from the tops of the trees, wheeling and dipping without ever needing to alight. Sam frowned. “Owl men?” he muttered to himself. “But they’re solitary…” Solitary and from Cornwall, he added mentally, diving into his tent again. 

He’d only brought two firearms with him, figuring that the park legally banned them entirely and bringing anything larger than a handgun would probably draw attention. One was loaded with consecrated iron. The other was loaded with silver. He had no idea which one would be more effective on owl men. He really only had one option: try both and see what happened. 

He bolted from the tent. One of the owl men had Vicki in its grip, starting to fly up into the air with her. He could see that she was bleeding. He could also see that she was still alive and that he couldn’t get a good shot at the monster without the risk of hitting her as well. Another of the cryptids joined its fellow, beginning to peck at the history major’s abdomen as the trio ascended. Oddly enough, she wasn’t screaming or even struggling. It had to be shock setting in already.

He saw a third owl man flying in at a clump of his friends. He didn’t have to hesitate here; the thing was high enough above them that he would need to screw up worse than his first time out on the range before he could even remotely endanger them. A consecrated iron round to the shoulder produced an ear-splitting scream. He adjusted his aim and hit it where the heart would be, dropping it to the ground. It landed on someone’s leg – it sounded like Sutter from the melodic tone of his scream, and what the hell was wrong with him that he could recognize that the guy sounded good when he screamed? 

Sam aimed next at a fourth owl man. This one had gotten hold of Ginny; this would be delicate, but it hadn’t taken off with her yet. He could see that the other two had noticed what he’d done and were coming for him even as the first two continued to tear into Vicki. There was no way Sam was going to let what he could see happening to her roommate happen to one of his closest friends, not if he could possibly prevent it. He pulled the trigger, hitting the creature right between the eyes. Ginny screamed as the thing that had her dropped, splattering her with blood. She was hurt, bleeding, but her friends rushed forward. 

Sam couldn’t. He turned to see the unoccupied owl men rushing for him. He glanced at Vicki. She was still twitching. Still alive, then. If he shot the one holding her it would drop her and she would definitely die. Of course, given the way she was bleeding onto the dirt she was almost certainly going to die anyway. He fired at the owl man trying to eat his friend’s entrails. One of the otherwise unoccupied owl men attacked and he had to admit that feeling that thing’s claws raking down his back was one of the more painful sensations he’d ever experienced. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. It hurt, he wasn’t going to lie, but Sam’d had worse. 

He fired at the other one coming in toward him, trying to narrow his focus and concentrate on the fight. He missed. 

The first owl man, the one that had Vicki’s still-squirming body in its claws, dropped her onto him. He jumped out of the way. It allowed him to avoid having a hundred ten pound Asian girl landing on his head from a great height, but he couldn’t help but have some of her blood splash onto his open wounds. He idly hoped she didn’t have anything blood-born as he fired at the first owl-man, hating himself for the thought. 

The one that had raked his back came in again to claw up his stomach, and that was nothing to joke about. The only good thing about it was the fact that he got to shoot it at point-blank range. The monster went down hard. He used his momentum as he fell to fire at the last of the owl men, who dodged. The first one, the one who had gotten Vicki, dove for Sam again. 

He could feel the blood gushing from his abdomen. He wasn’t going to be able to fight for very long, not with these injuries. When it grabbed him by the shoulders with its sharp pincer-talons he didn’t fight. Instead, he went limp. He could hear his classmates yelling down below him, but he ignored them. He only had one shot at this and he needed to make it count. 

Bingo. The last of the owl men flew up to meet them, probably just as intent on eating his liver as they’d been on eating poor Vicki’s. Sam raised his gun and shot in the face. At such close range there was no doubt of success. It screamed as it fell, but Sam didn’t pause to admire his handiwork. He brought his gun up to shoot the bird holding him in the chin. 

Of course, success brought with it the inevitable landing. He tried to contort himself to land on his side – he’d read somewhere that doing so would carry the highest probability of survival. Of course, he didn’t know if that would be true, and as his body connected with the ground he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be true. He groaned as he lay there in the dirt, bleeding. For a good ten seconds people just stood there in shock. Then Brady and Harris ran to his side, turning him gently over. “Winchester! Winchester!” the former called. “Can you hear me?” 

Sam blinked. He was still breathing, although every exhalation seemed to include blood. “The guns,” he groaned. “Hide the guns. Not supposed to be in the park.” 

Brady made a face. “You’re worried about that at a time like this?” he demanded as he used his own jacket to try to stanch the bleeding in Sam’s stomach. “Oh my God, there is so much blood.” 

Harris nodded. “I get it. I’m on it, Winchester.” Dark hands patted Sam’s shoulder companionably before getting up to go obey.

Sam could feel his grip on consciousness slipping away. He had to make sure that the others knew what to do. “Chuck… the bodies… in… ravine,” he directed, clutching at Brady’s arm. 

Liane’s face suddenly entered his field of vision. He hadn’t realized she was even close by. “No one will even believe that these were real, will they?” she nodded. “We should tell them that it was what, mountain lions?” 

He closed his eyes and nodded. Wasn’t shock supposed to set in and block the pain or something? If he was going to die out here couldn’t he at least do it with a little dignity? “Yeah. And tell Meli –“ He paused to catch his breath – “Tell her the priest knows.” They wouldn’t know what that meant. Even Meli wouldn’t know, not until she met Pastor Jim when he came to claim his body. Because he was totally going to die out here. Two and a half months of freedom.

Well, it had all been worth it. He couldn’t speak anymore, couldn’t even really breathe right, but he could hear the others scrambling to get things done. Brady was racing to try to deal with the bleeding and cover him up and deal with the shock – like anything was going to help him now, they were a good hour away from anything – and others were dealing with the owl-men’s bodies. Nothing would find them in the ravine. Someone was trying to immobilize Sutter’s leg, much to the musician’s consternation. Sam knew from experience how much that hurt. Someone else was trying to bandage Ginny up, not that she seemed to notice amid her sobbing. 

He fought to stay awake. Passing out was the enemy – if these were in fact his final moments on earth, painful as they were, he wanted to savor them. He needed something good to take with him into Hell, after all. And it had been a good two and a half months. He’d found a home. He’d found acceptance, even if he didn’t really fit in. He’d found stability and a place where being good at book learning didn’t make you a liability. He’d found a place where he had something to offer and he’d given it. He didn’t regret leaving the life, leaving Dad. He regretted that Dean had stayed with Dad. He regretted that Dean hadn’t loved him enough to let him choose his own way. It could only be a soldier’s life in John Winchester’s Army or no life at all for Dean, and he applied that to Sam too. He regretted that he’d never get to see Dean again, never get to introduce him to the value of a life outside of John’s control. Never get to tell him how much he loved him. But otherwise – he had no real regrets. He’d made his stand and escaped Dad, and that was enough. 

He was absolutely fading in and out of consciousness. He was cold, absolutely cold all of the time now. He would drift off in his own thoughts and find Brady slapping at his face gently. “Stay with me, Sam,” he’d order, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice. It was nice to know he cared. “Can’t lose you, the chopper’s on its way. Only a couple more minutes.” And then he’d drift off again. Shadows lengthened, shortened, lengthened again. He knew it was his own imagination. He just couldn’t bring himself to care. Brady’s voice took on an eerie, echoing quality that Sam knew it didn’t normally have. Harris seemed to develop a halo and Sam knew damn well the guy was no angel. And Vicki’s eyes – wide and vacant in death – seemed to suddenly fill with an inky blackness and wink at him before returning to their fixed, glassy state. 

He heard the helicopter approach, felt the wind as it landed. That couldn’t be good for the flaps of skin on his body, he thought with a dopey grin that would have been a laugh if he’d had the energy. The medflight doctor approached the pair of them and pronounced Vicki dead immediately. It had to be the exposed internal organs that gave her the vital clue. He didn’t fight as the doctor looked him over. He couldn’t. “Let’s load him up,” he heard the medic tell some staff members. “It’s going to be touch and go either way.” 

He gestured toward the tiny woman, who brought a surprised ear down to his lips. “No transfusions,” he whispered. “Can’t.”

She looked at him like he had three heads. For once, the “you’re such a freak” look didn’t bother him. It didn’t matter. He’d probably be gone long before they got to the hospital anyway. She went to look at Ginny and at Sutter and declared that while Sutter could wait for a regular ambulance – which, she assured him, was on its way – she’d feel more comfortable considering how badly Ginny was bleeding if Ginny came along on the bird. No one objected, so Ginny was bundled onto a stretcher and strapped into the helicopter along with Sam. 

It absolutely had to be his imagination when he thought he saw thick black smoke coming out of Vicki and coming into the cabin of the helicopter while the doctor looked at Sutter’s leg again. He’d seen a lot of things in his time, and that was something that just plain didn’t happen. No one else seemed to notice anything, of course, and he found himself losing consciousness completely before the helicopter was even off the ground. 

***John ***

Sunday morning in Blue Earth was peaceful – for a given value of peaceful. There had been a point in John’s life, more than twenty years gone now, when he’d enjoyed taking Sunday mornings to sleep in. Every once in a while he could let himself imagine sleeping in again on a Sunday morning and Blue Earth was the kind of place where he could imagine doing exactly that. The bed was a damn sight more comfortable than the motel or furnished-apartment beds he’d stayed in over the years and the rectory sure as hell smelled better than any of them. The only thing about the rectory was that it was, well, a rectory. And rectories on Sunday mornings meant bells. It was hard to sleep through bells.

So John got up. He scrounged for his sweats and drew them on, and then he went upstairs to check on Dean. He wasn’t subtle when he pushed open the door, wasn’t trying to test him by sneaking up on him or anything, but the boy didn’t stir. Well, it had been a challenging month for him, hadn’t it? He’d come damn close to dying from the pukwudgie’s poison, and then he’d hauled ass three quarters of the way across the country just as soon as the cure had been given, no recovery time, only to get dragged into a hunt and have to play nursemaid to his father’s Annual Major Bender ™ besides. Then John had dragged him up the length of the country again, once again giving him no down time to recover. No wonder the kid was completely zonked out. Maybe he should just let him sleep in, give him a chance to rest up and recover. 

Then again, he’d gone easy on Sam and look where it had gotten him. The demons weren’t going to go easy on Dean because he was feeling poorly or tired. The things that went bump in the night weren’t going to cut Dean a break because he’d been working himself too hard lately. He needed to be prepared, to be ready to work through whatever the life threw at him, and if that meant coping with a little fatigue then so be it. Maybe it would teach him to take it easy with the skirt chasing. He uncovered Dean’s feet and slapped the soles with the flat of his hand, hard. The boy let out a howl and sat straight up, knife in hand. 

John chuckled darkly. “Get your ass out of bed boy,” he growled. “You’ve been sleeping long enough. Time to go run. We’ve been complacent long enough.” 

For half a second something sparked in Dean’s eye, but he nodded. “Yes sir. Give me five.”

“The hell you need five minutes for, boy? You think a poltergeist would give you five minutes?”

“Then I’d pee on the poltergeist, sir.”

John backed out of that little attic room quickly after that. 

True to his word, Dean was downstairs and ready to run in four and a half minutes. The dumb little amulet he’d worn since ninety-one gleamed on his chest. John had never really gotten that. The boy wore too much jewelry as it was, but he sure was attached to that stupid trinket. He made a mental note to have a conversation with the boy about that at some point, but for now he just wanted to get back out and train a bit.

John led them a few miles out, and it was pretty damn liberating to have a family run without someone complaining about how it didn’t fit in with his damn schedule or how he had some fool thing he needed to do or how Dean was still recovering and he needed to rest damn it. Dean was keeping up just fine. The kid didn’t need coddling, damn it, he needed to get back into a regular regimen. He’d gotten too used to sleeping in and lazing around, probably watching all the porn on the internet on that laptop of his, while he was sick. No more. It was time to get back to what was important. Mary was important. Mary, and nothing else. Maybe Sam had forgotten that, but John hadn’t and Dean wouldn’t. 

The upside of coming back to Blue Earth on a semi-regular basis – it wouldn’t do to make it a regular thing, not something that could be predicted anyway – was that they had places they could go where they wouldn’t be observed. John led them to one of these places now and Dean made no objections. “All right, boy,” he said to his son as they turned to each other in the clearing. “Time to spar.” 

Dean didn’t groan. He didn’t roll his eyes. He straightened up. “Sir,” he replied before falling into a defensive stance. John took the first shot, a right hook to the chest. Dean blocked it easily and countered with an uppercut to the chin that would have probably knocked a few teeth out if John hadn’t blocked. The older man responded with a jab to the side of his son’s head, again on the right. Instead of blocking and stepping back Dean stepped inside, driving up and in with his shoulder and taking John to the ground. 

He’d never tell Dean, of course, but the veteran found himself pretty impressed by the response. He hadn’t been expecting it and found himself scrambling as a fist came flying at his face. “Hold!” he yelled. “I’m good!” 

Dean grinned and helped his father up. “You liked that one, huh?” 

“You’re just lucky my wrist is still broken, kid.” Nothing could have dimmed Dean’s smile, though. 

They sparred for about an hour. John adapted to Dean’s apparent willingness to grapple with him quickly. On the one hand it was difficult to fight this way with his arm in a cast; he was seriously limited in his ability to fight back against the smaller male. At the same time, it wasn’t like he was putting the kid in tournaments or anything. They were fighting for their lives, whether it was against marks who didn’t appreciate getting scammed or against werewolves who could end their lives with the slightest graze of their teeth. Every bit of training and adaptation was important, equally for John as for Dean.

He wondered what Sam was doing right now. He’d expected that he’d leave off all training once he wasn’t being forced to do anything more physical than pick up a book, but from what little he’d seen in California the kid had packed on more muscle and had certainly kept up with something.

They did some strength training using the landscape as best they could before running back to the rectory. By now the Mass would be finished and they both knew how to get back to the upstairs without being observed by anyone who might be visiting with the priest on parish business. John took the first shower; it was his right as the commander. Once the water had a chance to heat back up Dean went and cleaned up while John took a moment to call and check in with Adam. The kid was doing well. He’d passed some kind of test and made some kind of team. He had a crush on some girl named Grace; apparently they’d never actually exchanged a word but she was “beautiful, and really smart.” He was struggling with first year French. Great. John couldn’t help him with that. 

He wanted his father to come to visit for Thanksgiving, a sentiment seconded by his mother. John didn’t make any promises, but he gave it some thought. After all, a family Thanksgiving – when was the last time he’d done that? Nineteen eighty-two, when Mary had been pregnant with Sam and it had just been the three of them. Back when he’d still thought the world was good and safe and right. He knew better now, of course. It wasn’t like he could un-know, even if he did manage to erase his mind on a regular if temporary basis. Was there really any harm in pretending for a day or so, though? 

He told Dean to bring his laptop downstairs when he heard him get out of the shower. They would need it to start getting ready for the mothman hunt, and it wasn’t like John’s was operational. Freaking Taurus. Who the hell did he think he was, wrecking John’s laptop and then absconding like this? He’d said he’d fix it when John went to Blue Earth. Well, he was in Blue Earth now; where the hell was he? The guy was about as reliable as a cat. 

When Jim had finished counseling his parishioners about pre-marital sex or not taking the Lord’s name in vain or some other crap – like any of that mattered when there could be a djinn coming for you that same night – he called them down to his office so they could work on the case together. “Haven’t seen a mothman case in a long time,” the priest grinned. “Not since the priest who taught me how to hunt was active.” 

“What, you mean that the guy who ran this parish before you was a hunter too?” Dean asked. 

“Oh, sure,” their friend chuckled. “You don’t think that the diocese keeps this place open for forty souls in the off season, and however many migrant workers during the growing season? This area’s been mostly Protestant for a long time. It’s mostly to keep a hand in the game. You know how it is. Anyway, Father Nick was around the last time there was a mothman anywhere and that was over in Ohio. Scary stuff, man.” 

John frowned. “Did he kill it?”

“No. No he didn’t. Another hunter did, although he died of his injuries. It was a fellow by the name of Horace, Horace Wilson. Here’s the thing. Every time that there’s been a mothman sighting there’ve been… problems, you know?” 

“What kind of problems?” the older hunter scowled. Nothing was going to deter him from going after the mothman, anything supernatural had to die of course, but he wanted to be prepared before going in. 

“People usually see the mothman before some kind of disaster,” the priest informed him. “In 1967 people saw a mothman before a bridge collapsed in West Virginia, killing 46 people. That sort of thing. People think they’re a disaster omen.” He shrugged. “I mean, the Ohio mothman didn’t have a disaster associated with it, not that I know of.” 

“So how do you know that it wasn’t a case of the mothman causing the disaster?” Dean inquired, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Like, enough people believe that the thing causes disasters that disasters happen. If someone gets to it before enough people see it then that takes care of both the mothman and the disaster that goes with it.” 

John nodded. “Like a tulpa, but different.” 

“So do we really need to kill it at all?” Jim wondered, leaning back and looking out the window. “I mean, it doesn’t actually attack people or even seem particularly interested in them. It just kind of hangs around and peers down from their barns and such, right?” 

Dean bit his lip. “Well, what killed Horace Wilson?”

John gave Dean a fleeting smile. The kid had a good head on his shoulders. “He’s got a point, Jim. Besides, it doesn’t have to attack people to be a danger to humans. If it’s like a tulpa the fact that it exists at all makes it dangerous. It focuses beliefs so strongly that they become reality – a very destructive reality. Are you willing to have that kind of blood on your hands, when you could have done something about it?” 

Jim sighed. “I guess. I guess our first step should probably be to figure out what kills them, then. We know that Wilson killed one all those years ago but we’ve got no idea how. I’ll start going through Father Nick’s journals – the guy was a compulsive note-taker.” 

“Dean, I want you to start making some phone calls. Why don’t you start with Bobby Singer – he ‘s a good resource, and he’s a hell of a lot more likely to talk to you than he is to talk to me.” Everyone had to acknowledge the truth of this, and it didn’t bother John one little bit to admit to it either. The kooky old bastard had no right telling him how to raise his boys. “You can work on Taurus, too, if you’d like. If the bastard can be bothered to respond.” Jim glared, but kept silent. “I’m going to start looking at the Internet. It’s not my strong suit but someone has to pick up Sam’s slack.” Dean looked like someone had stabbed him in the gut, but what did he expect to hear? It was true. 

Jim began poring over the shelves, picking up what looked like old ledgers and scanning them quickly before re-shelving most of them. Dean disappeared into another room with his phone and his laptop. Part of John bristled – why did the kid need to keep his conversation so private? He could trust Dean, though. He knew he’d cut Sammy off without a word when ordered to, after all, even though John had never wanted that.

John himself started with Google on the good priest’s PC. It was the logical starting point for any search, after all. An hour turned into two and John hadn’t turned up much beyond what he already knew. Mothmen were big. Mothmen were scary. Mothmen were harbingers of disaster. There was something about a cartoon sidekick to a giant blue tick, but John was pretty sure that was irrelevant. He leaned back and rubbed his face with his hands. There were plenty of new-agey types willing to talk about how the mothmen were Ethereal Messengers From Beyond. There were plenty of conspiracy theorists willing to talk about how mothmen were aliens spying on them for invaders waiting for the opportune moment to strike, or possibly escaped from some secret government containment facility. You could take your pick; they seemed equally distributed, but the tinfoil lining their hats seemed to be the same regardless. There were plenty of skeptics insisting that the mothmen were nothing but oversized cranes. There were plenty of folks who insisted that the mothmen were the results of toxic waste and radiation, and those folks read too many comic books. If he’d ever caught Sam or Dean with any trash like that there would have been more than hell to pay. (Of course, Sam had to have gotten his absurd ideas from somewhere.)

Dean approached him. “Bobby had some ideas, but he wanted to make a few phone calls first. He might have a lead on Wilson’s journal. He’ll check it out and give me a call.” He stood with his back ramrod straight, absolutely no inflection to his voice. “I’m going to start on dinner for the three of us if that’s okay. Pastor Jim has a chicken to roast, a couple of potatoes.” 

John glanced at the window. He supposed that the day had worn on. “Sure thing, Dean.” He really should make Dean help Pastor Jim with the research, but books weren’t exactly the boy’s forte. He hated that sort of thing with a passion and getting to be around food was a rare treat for him. Besides, Jim had gone through the trouble of getting chicken and everything. Dean disappeared again, and John heard the sounds of food preparation beginning. Apparently food preparation involved Metallica. Who knew? 

He continued with his research. There had to be a way to kill these stupid sons of bitches. So far all he could really tell was that some idiots thought it was a great idea to build statuary of them. Well, some folks thought building monuments to Dracula was a good plan too. 

After about half an hour he could smell something good taking shape. After about two hours Dean came back to the office. “Dinner, sir.” 

John smiled a little and got up to wash his hands. Never let it be said that he wasn’t capable of manners.

Jim joined them at the kitchen table, finding that Dean had actually come up with a pretty decent dinner for the trio. Instead of roasting the chicken he’d cut it up and turned it into a stew, served up with mashed potatoes and what looked like frozen peas. Frozen peas made a better ice pack than food item in John’s humble opinion, but Dean had made an effort to make a balanced meal and this one even smelled delicious. “Where’d you learn to cook like this, Dean?” Jim wondered with an easy smile. 

“Reform school,” the boy replied. The cocky grin stayed on his face but he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “One of the chores. You know.”

“Glad to see that it did you some good,” John replied. He could have gone back for Dean, busted him out after only a few days. It wouldn’t have been hard. He’d just been so incensed that the kid had lost the money he’d left for them that he wanted to make damn sure that he learned his lesson. Maybe separating him from Sam had been a good thing, too. 

“Yes, sir.” The grin fell from Dean’s face. Then again, maybe not. 

“So tell me more about your adventures in Fall River, Dean,” Jim invited. “Other than the pukwudgie, of course. I heard something about a phantom traveler?” 

Dean nodded and launched into a story about a legendary ghost of Freetown, some guy who had been menacing locals for decades. The kid was nothing if not a great storyteller. He could keep an audience rapt for days. He absolutely got his charisma from his mother. She’d been just the same, able to keep folks’ attention and affections for as long as she’d wanted. When Dean was halfway through his story – explaining about drunken Red Sox fans and how the words were pretty much synonymous, which Jim as a Boston native should really have known – the phone rang.

Jim frowned but got up to answer it. He was, after all, a priest and a hunter. You never knew when someone would need last rites or possibly an exorcism. “Jim Murphy,” he greeted. There was a pause, and his eyebrows drew together. “Yes, of course I do.” Pause, and then the color drained entirely from Jim’s face. “My God. Yeah – uh, yes. Of course. Thank you for calling. I’ll… really? There’s no one else.” Was it John’s imagination or did the priest’s eyes dart to Dean before he spoke again. “That’s… okay. You know what? I think I was previously… No. I get it. I understand. I’ll be on the first flight I can get. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” 

John and Dean exchanged looks. “Something happen, padre?” John asked. 

“One of my parishioners – former parishioners, I guess – has been in an accident. I’m his only emergency contact. I need to leave. I’m sorry. You can use the rectory, of course. I’ll call the diocese from the airport in case I can’t make it back for Mass next week –“ 

John frowned. “Jim, we’re in the middle of a hunt here.”

Jim snarled before getting himself under control. “John, this man has no one else, do you understand me? No one. And there’s a goddamn reason it was the chaplain’s office calling me, all right? And not the medical staff. Do you get it now?” 

John met his friend’s eyes for a moment. “Get your things,” he directed. “I’ll drive you to Rochester; you’ll be able to get a direct flight to wherever from there.” 

***Dean ***

Dean watched his father and his friend leave. It hadn’t taken the priest long to pack. On the one hand he couldn’t use his usual “go” bag – you couldn’t generally take hunting equipment onto a plane. On the other hand, it wasn’t like he needed to pick matching clothes or anything. It would be about four hours before Dad got back. He packed up enough of the dinner to feed him and maybe to give him some leftovers for lunch tomorrow and then he tucked into the rest of his dinner and the priest’s besides. No sense in letting it go to waste. After dinner he washed the dishes. Then he settled in to keep up with the research. Whatever had happened with Pastor Jim’s parishioner had sounded bad. The guy’s eyes had shone with tears, tears that weren’t being shed yet. He’d spoken to Dad with a kind of intensity that he didn’t generally use. And yeah, that line about a chaplain instead of medical staff – well, that didn’t really bode well either. The guy must have meant something to Jim at some point, obviously still did even though he was far enough away that an airplane was required. Catch Dean getting into one of those flying coffins… 

Well, there was no real reason to let the research slide. Dad and Pastor Jim hadn’t gotten very far in the search for something to kill the mothman with but maybe Bobby would come through. The guy had probably forgotten more lore than any ten hunters combined had ever known and his house was practically held up with books. Funny how he and Sammy had never been close. Maybe Bobby was jealous of his geek cred. Or maybe Sammy had been too caught up in a book to put the effort into cultivating Bobby’s friendship and affection. Whatever, it was too late now. 

They could focus on that. Dean didn’t want to duplicate their efforts or to make them feel like he was second-guessing them; Dad hated that kind of thing. How often had he and Sammy butted heads over exactly that? It didn’t matter if Sammy turned out to be right in the end; Sammy was still wrong. Dean could see Dad’s point. Dad needed to be absolutely certain that they would follow his orders without question, that they trusted him so implicitly that they would move at his command with no hiccups at all. That was how soldiers worked. In the meantime Dean could work on other things. Maybe he could narrow down the search area. If he could shorten that part of the planning process now maybe they could get rid of the mothman that much faster, as in before so many people saw the damn thing that their combined belief brought down a school or something. Because that was exactly what southern Minnesota needed right now.

He shook his head. What had Pastor Jim really been thinking with that “do we really need to kill it” nonsense? It was supernatural, it had to die, that was all there was to it. He’d heard similar questions from Sammy before. The difference of course was that Jim was a proven hunter, a trusted ally. Of course, he was also very close with Sam, closer than he was with Dean. Which one of them had started to question the fundamental philosophy of hunting first? Had Jim been whispering subversive ideas into Sammy’s young mind just as he’d been teaching him absurdity like prayer and redemption? Or had Sammy started to badger the priest until he’d started to doubt for himself? 

Dean started to contemplate what they knew about the mothmen. They tended to be pretty non-confrontational and fairly solitary. They could – and apparently would, according to the corpse of Mr. Horace Wilson – defend themselves but if they weren’t seen but every decade or so, if that, they really must like to avoid humankind altogether. So there had to be something that drew the things out, that made them overcome their natural desire to avoid people. 

Maybe it was some kind of food thing – maybe they only needed to feed once a decade. If that were the case wouldn’t they be more aggressive, though? There would be signs, indications that the mothman was actually consuming something. Plants would be wrecked, livestock destroyed, people would go missing. Hell, maybe houses would be consumed or rocks digested, Dean didn’t know. Who the hell knew what mothmen ate?

What else did animals need to do? Well, they needed to crap. Maybe they didn’t need to excrete more than once a decade. The thought made him laugh a little. He did have a sense of humor after all. It might be a juvenile sense of humor, but it was a sense of humor nevertheless. It only made him laugh for a moment though, because without Sammy here to tell him that his sense of humor had stopped growing in the fifth grade it just didn’t have the same amusement value. Considered like a rational adult he had to admit that it seemed like the kind of thing that someone would pick up on.

That left procreation. The mothman might be looking for a mate. They were rare as anything, so a decade between births or hatchings or whatever mothmen did wasn’t exactly out of the question. How exactly did mothmen make more mothmen exactly, anyway? Did they do it on the wing, like birds of prey? Did they leave eggs somewhere to be fertilized later, like turtles? It was turtles that did that, right? Sammy would know. It was totally Sammy’s job to know that crap. 

He turned his attention to the map, and to the accounts that his father and Jim had pulled together. There had been five sightings, all brief, and all of them had taken place near the lakes to the northeast of Waseca. Dean was willing to bet money that the thing’s lair or nest or whatever the proper terminology was would be Woodville Cemetery, an older cemetery that boasted plenty of trees. The sightings were all in the area, and there was plenty of cover in the area. The question of course was whether or not there was more than one mothman to be concerned with. After all, if it was looking to mate, that usually took more than one critter, right? 

Dad made it home by eleven. They shared a few beers and Dean explained what he’d been doing with his evening. Dad just nodded after a moment. “It’s been a while since the weapons were cleaned,” he pointed out. 

Dean’s heart sank. Of course. He should have taken care of the weapons. He shouldn’t have tried to do the thinking for Dad; he didn’t give good value for money in that regard. 

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow; you can work on it tomorrow after you call Bobby Singer. Jim said we should ask him to come help out with the hunt and I hate to say it but I agree. I don’t know as we can handle this one on our own.” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll call him at ten. He gets grouchy if you call before that.”

Dad snorted. “Bobby came out of his mama’s womb grouchy. Was wearin’ that hat, too.” 

He probably wasn’t wrong about that. Dean went to bed as soon as he was dismissed, grateful for the rest. His body was still exhausted from the constant driving and hunting he’d done since completing his pukwudgie cure; his mind hadn’t quite gotten over the loss of Sammy yet. 

He woke the next morning and yes, indeed, it was raining. Dad didn’t make him run in the rain, not now that Sammy was gone. It was nice to know that Dad trusted him to know what he needed to do for his body. They did some sparring indoors, nothing to bust up the place but enough to get the blood flowing before breakfast. Afterward Dean went out to get doughnuts and coffee, grabbing a newspaper for his father while he was at it. 

For himself he preferred online news sources. It was a habit Sammy had gotten him into when he’d been with them and Dean could certainly see the utility. For one thing he could look for the news he wanted instead of having it spoonfed to him. For another, he could choose geography. He was only minimally interested in southern Minnesota news. He’d be here until Thanksgiving, so local drama about the Nativity scene really didn’t mean a thing to him one way or another. He checked in on Mississippi news, because someone publishing the news there still pulled at his heartstrings even though that was stupid. He checked the news in Cicero, Indiana, because he’d spent the bendiest weekend of his life there once. He checked the news in Palo Alto because even if he wasn’t allowed to watch Sammy anymore he liked to know what was happening around him. 

Of course, every little thing he saw in Palo Alto had to be about Sammy, because he was an overprotective big brother and overprotective big brothers were like that. If he saw that car thefts were on the rise he immediately figured that Sam had gone and gotten his damn car stolen, never mind the fact that Sam had needed to walk to the bus station and probably didn’t actually own a car. If he saw that muggings were up thirty percent well naturally Sammy had gone and gotten himself mugged, because it wasn’t like the kid had been fighting since he could freaking walk or anything. Or had broken a bunch of Dad’s ribs before walking out the door. 

And today – Veteran’s Day – when he looked at the headlines, of course his mind went straight to Sammy when he saw that a group of Stanford freshman had been attacked by a pack of mountain lions while camping in a nearby state park. “Holy shit,” he breathed before he remembered that his father was there. 

His father looked up from the paper. “What is it, Dean?” 

The youth thought fast. “A bunch of Stanford students got attacked by a ‘pack’ of mountain lions while camping,” he reported. “Do you think maybe that’s why Taurus isn’t responding?” 

Was it Dean’s imagination or did Dad turn a little pale at the news? “Why would Taurus care? For that matter, what business is it of ours, Dean?” “Well, for one thing, mountain lions don’t exactly run in packs, do they?” He swallowed hard. Of course Sammy wouldn’t really be out there, because Sammy had too much damn sense to go camping in the first place. He had fought so hard to get a real roof over his head, why would he go spend time pretending he didn’t have one again? “I mean, that’s the first sign of something that’s our kind of weird right there, isn’t it, sir?” 

Dad considered for a moment, then inclined his head and put down his paper. “Any details?”

“Looks like a bunch of freshmen went camping for the long weekend and got attacked by mountain lions. That’s their story, and there are enough of them saying it that the police are buying it.” It reeked of bullshit, even at a distance between California and Minnesota. “It says here one student was killed. One was med-flighted to Stanford Medical Center in critical condition – they’re saying life-threatening injuries. Two more were also hurt and transported to the same hospital. ‘Names are being withheld pending notification of the families involved.’” He looked up at his father. “What if Taurus was one of the ones injured? I mean, ‘animal attack’ is one of the things we tell people all of the time.” 

“What the hell would he be doing taking a bunch of civilians on a hunt for?” He shook his head. 

“It would explain why Pastor Jim dropped everything and took off, though, wouldn’t it? I mean, he’s the only one who’s actually seen Taurus.” 

Dad scowled at him. “Not true. Taurus has a girlfriend, remember? I’ve met her. I’ve spoke with her. Jim wouldn’t need to go flying off across the country to go deal with Taurus, and I don’t think Taurus is a freshman anyway. He talked about Stanford being his ‘workplace,’ not his school.” He shook his head. “If it is supernatural I hope he gets his head out of his ass and does something about it. People are dying.” He glanced out the window speculatively. “I could go myself… but I don’t think California really agrees with me.”

California really hadn’t agreed with John Winchester. Dean could admit that in the privacy of his brain. “You don’t think… he was out there, do you?” 

Dad sat absolutely still for a moment. “No. No I don’t, Dean. I don’t think it would be because I’d like to think we gave him enough sense to not go horsing around where there are monsters. He’s not the kind of kid to attach others, not enough that they’d bring him along on a group camping trip. No one would want him around that long. And even if he were there, Dean, it wouldn’t be any of our business. He left. He’s not our problem anymore.” 

The older hunter stood up. “Call that bastard Singer and tell him we need him here.” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean pulled out his phone and dialed as his father walked out of the room. He couldn’t look away from the headline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire time I was researching the mothman, I couldn't stop thinking about all the Mothra movies my dad and I watched when I was a little kid.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim deals with a protective R.A. John contemplates the perfect, open communication in his marriage. Dean and Bobby go to Ohio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! It's still Wednesday on the US east coast!

***Jim ***

There were advantages and disadvantages to traveling in his clerical collar. On the one hand he had this almost preternatural ability to stultify conversations around him. People thought that because he was a priest his ears couldn’t be contaminated with any mention of sex or drugs or drinking. For crying out loud, Jim had come from somewhere, and that somewhere was South Boston. There was nothing he hadn’t heard, and that had been before he’d become a part of the modern Church Militant. But he couldn’t really say anything like that, because he’d reflect badly on the Church. So he smiled patiently and let people cover their mouths and try to pretend like they weren’t lying, cheating scoundrels.

On the other hand, it had its perks. He got a discount on the flight when he told the ticket agent that he’d been called to the bedside of a former parishioner who’d been in a bad accident and had no family. It wasn’t a lie. People were willing to give way to him during boarding, like he was some kind of invalid despite the fact that he was barely middle-aged. And he was the only priest on the flight so he knew that whoever the chaplain’s office sent to fetch him would be able to pick him out easily in a crowd. He closed his eyes on the flight and tried to get a nap in. 

He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to sleep. He didn’t have a lot of information. The call had come from the chaplain’s office at Stanford. “Father Jim Murphy? I’m Rabbi Joseph Rosenbaum from the Stanford Office of Religious Services. This is a difficult conversation to have over the phone, but I’m calling about Sam Winchester. There’s been… well, there’s been an accident, and the phone number he listed for his brother on his emergency contact form is out of service. You’re listed as his second contact. Do you know Sam?” And then there had been the terrible, “Father Murphy, I hate to say this, but it would really be best if his family were called without delay.” 

And he’d had to look up at John Winchester, and then over at Dean, and say to this chaplain, “No, there’s no one else.” They wouldn’t have said that if they’d held out much hope. They’d urged him to hurry. 

As the plane landed Jim grabbed his luggage from the overhead bin – he never checked a bag, there was just too much that could go wrong – and deplaned with the rest of the passengers. Just as expected his escort found him easily. “Jim Murphy?” The voice was the same voice he’d spoken to on the phone. “Joe Rosenbaum. I’m pleased to meet you, although I’d rather it be under different circumstances. I’m here to give you a ride to the hospital.” 

He shook the proffered hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it. How is he? Have you seen him?”

“I have not. He’s been in surgery since the bird landed.” The rabbi walked and spoke, leading him quickly through the airport. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised that his next of kin is a priest. I had no idea Sam was even Catholic.” 

Jim smiled a little. “His father never bothered to have him baptized. After his mother passed I don’t think he was exactly at home to any kind of religion, but I was a friend of the family. I helped Sam hide his application process from his father.” 

“I see. That explains a lot.”

“How so?” 

“The school runs the hospital. They saw that his next of kin was a priest, so they sent someone to perform last rites. Apparently he regained consciousness long enough to correct the poor man on his ritual, correct him on his Latin, tell him he wasn’t Catholic and flatline.” He chuckled mirthlessly. 

“Flatline?” Jim gasped.

“They got his heart started again, don’t worry. He was hurt pretty badly, I’m not going to lie to you. You’re… prepared. I know we spoke.” He glanced over at Jim. 

The priest swallowed hard. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m praying for the best but I understand that it’s not very likely.” 

“For what it’s worth, Father, I’m praying for him too. I’m not just a chaplain; I’m his advisor in the theology department. Do you want to stop and get some coffee or head straight over? I know you had a long flight.” 

“Let’s just head right over to the hospital. I know it’s early for you.” 

He shrugged. “Meh. I can worry about the kid at the hospital or I can worry about him at home. Either way. That’s a fine young man you have there, Jim. Someone should be proud of him.” 

Jim thought about John, about Dean. “I am.” 

They drove through the lightening city in relative silence. Jim couldn’t help but fret. What if he was too late? It wasn’t as though he was exactly a stranger to extreme unction. What if they lost Sam, as seemed likely? What would he do? What would he tell John and Dean? Would he tell them anything at all? 

The hospital bustled with activity, but the front desk directed them to the intensive care unit instead of to the emergency room so Jim supposed that was something. It meant that Sam was out of surgery and alive for one thing. Of course, the definition of “alive” differed from person to person, so Jim wasn’t going to get his hopes up based on a room change. He followed the rabbi through the corridors, not even really bothering to pay attention to direction. What was it with hospitals, anyway? They all seemed to be absolute warrens of construction with different elevators for different wings of different floors, and nothing made any sense at all. Rosenbaum seemed to be fine with the layout though so Jim was okay with just following him and steeling himself for the worst.

He would have known he was in the right place even if he didn’t have the professor with him as soon as he got out of the elevator. The waiting area was full of kids. There had to be a good ten of them there, tired and miserable and twitchy. They all looked up when he got off the elevator. One of the girls, a brunette, leaned into a young black man’s shoulder and started crying. A slim blond stood up. “Are you Sam’s priest?” 

Jim cleared his throat. “He usually calls me Pastor Jim. I’m a friend of the family, and I guess I’m his next of kin.” He didn’t know how much Sam had told these people about his home life.

He’d told the blond enough because his lips folded tightly for a moment; then he forced himself to relax. “Tyson Brady. I’m a friend of Sam’s.” He gestured. “We’re all friends of Sam. The others are back at the campsite, packing things up and getting our things and everything.” He gave a bitter little laugh. “The rangers were afraid of attracting vermin.” 

“Right.” He looked around. “I’d really like to hear the story of what happened, Mr. Brady, but I’d like to go in there and see Sam first. I’ve known him since he was an infant, you know. Gave him his first Latin textbook.” 

Brady gave a little huff of laughter. “Only guy I know who’s so fluent that he dreams in Latin,” he muttered, looking away. 

“He’s got a gift, that’s for sure. I don’t suppose that he’s woken up yet?” Jim found himself very curious to know why this kid knew the language in which Sam dreamed.

“No. Meli’s in there with him – she’s the RA.” The teen led the way into the intensive care room with a confidence more appropriate to a much older man. “Meli, this is the priest Sam mentioned. Before he really lost it Sam said to tell you ‘the priest knows.’” Jim turned away from Meli long enough to give Brady a quizzical look, but the young man was already leaving after a shuddering glance at the figure on the bed. 

Meli was an absolutely stunning young woman, in her early twenties with natural hair pushed back slightly from her face by a white scarf. She looked tired, suggesting that she’d been here all night. They were alone in the room now, the door closed behind Brady. “You’re Sam’s RA?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The woman gave him a very measuring look. She didn’t bother keeping her voice down, although she didn’t raise it either. “Yes. Melisende Allen. There’s no need to whisper, he can’t hear you. Even if he hadn’t been injured as badly as he was he’s drugged sixteen ways from Sunday. He wouldn’t wake up for the Apocalypse right now.” She brushed some of Sam’s hair back from his face. The hair had grown out more than a bit since Jim had seen him last, not that it hadn’t always tended toward the shaggy. “You a hunter?” 

He blinked. “I suppose I am, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m a friend of the family and Sam’s emergency contact. I’m Jim Murphy, and I’m pastor of the last Catholic church in Blue Earth.” 

She gave half a smile. “’The priest knows,’” she quoted. “He trusted you, then.” “I suppose he did. Mostly, anyway.” He glanced down at the body in the bed. “I don’t think that Sam ever trusted anyone completely.” 

“Mmm.”

“You don’t seem terribly trusting yourself, Melisende.” He tried to hold himself in as unthreatening a posture as he could. It didn’t seem to help much. 

“I’m not a huge fan of hunters. Especially not when they’re in John Winchester’s orbit.” 

He nodded. “Fair enough. Christo.”

She snorted. “Right. Not a demon. And the earrings are silver, for the record. Not a shifter. Sam explained that to me.”

He avoided grinning. It didn’t seem appropriate in this place, however giddy even that little bit of grudging approval from the RA might make him feel. “Fair enough. Does your hate for John Winchester stem from just what Sam has told you?” 

“No.” She glanced at Sam. “But I am the one who convinced him to get the order banning his father from campus. And I’m glad I did, too.” She sighed. “Listen. You’re still in contact, right? With his family?”

“They’re at the rectory right now.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing. I didn’t have any information.” 

A tiny woman in a white coat breezed in. “Family of Samuel Winchester?” she demanded, looking up through her glasses at Jim. 

“That’s me. I’m his next of kin. Jim Murphy,” he introduced, wondering exactly when he’d get tired of repeating his name. 

“I’m Dr. Eppley. Sam’s physician while he’s with us. Apparently he doesn’t have a primary care doctor?”

“No, his family moved around too much for regular medical care.” Jim glanced at Meli. 

So did the doctor. “Are you sure you want to talk in front of…”

“Ms. Allen can stay, Dr. Eppley. She’s his RA. She’ll be the most helpful in getting the help he’ll need.” He found himself rewarded with the barest ghost of a smile.

“Okay….” The outsider grimaced a little. “Anyway, Sam has been through an awful lot of trauma. He’s lost a tremendous amount of blood. Before he lost consciousness he specifically requested that he not receive any transfusions. Is there a religious reason for the request?” 

“No,” Jim remembered. “He has some kind of… I don’t know, a weird genetic factor that makes his body reject donated blood. They found out after a bad accident in Pennsylvania, I think it might have been Lancaster County. He was maybe nine.” 

She nodded. “We were able to get through surgery without having to top him off although I’ll tell you, I went into the chapel afterwards and gave thanks and I haven’t been in a church since my First Communion. He’s got broken ribs – it looks like they were previously fractured and only recently healed, so that was a complicating factor. Thanks to the fall we have one punctured lung and one bruised lung, a lacerated liver, a damaged spleen and a damaged kidney. His heart is not coping well with the blood loss. Furthermore the … mountain lions… caused sharp force trauma to his abdominal cavity as well, damaging his peritoneum. And as I mentioned, Sam had lost just a tremendous amount of blood. I have no idea how he’s still with us right now.” 

Meli bit her lip and gripped Sam’s hand. Jim inhaled. “So, what’s his prognosis?” 

“Honestly? I couldn’t even begin to guess. I think we’re going to need to start weaning him off the sedation to let him start to wake up. It seems like his limbs are sound. There’s no evidence of any kind of head injury or spinal injury. I’m going to be honest with you – any single one of his injuries would be considered severe to life threatening on its own. He must have some kind of angel looking out for him.” She shook her head.

Jim snorted. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he knew everything about the Winchesters’ lives. He knew enough to know that if Sam had an angel looking out for him it was probably one of the fallen variety. “So, let’s pretend he pulls through. What are we looking at here?” 

?“Assuming no long-term ill effects from the blood loss? I’d say bed rest for at least a couple of weeks. I want him doing nothing more strenuous than going to class for at least the rest of the semester – I can tell that this young man takes his fitness seriously, but he’s going to have to focus on recovery before he can focus on being a triathlete or whatever it is that he does.” Her brow furrowed. “What is it that he does?”

“Everything he can,” Meli commented with a grin.

“His father was a drill sergeant,” Jim covered, “and saw Sam as just another recruit.” 

“Ah.” She sighed. “Well, he’ll need to learn the phrase ‘rest and relaxation,’ then. Look, let’s not get our hopes up here, okay? I’d be as happy as anyone else if Sam pulled through but this? Even lasting this long is kind of a miracle.” 

“Okay. Thank you, doctor.” He rose as the tiny woman walked away. “All right, Meli, what really happened?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“There’s no way that these injuries came from a mountain lion.” He fixed her with a look. “Was he… he wasn’t hunting, was he?”

“What? No. Not with his friends around. It was something…” She sighed. “It was something Claire came up with, actually. She wanted to do something fun together, as a kind of celebration after midterms and before everyone had to go back to their families for Thanksgiving break and everything. She wanted to build up her portfolio too, so she figured the redwoods were a good way to do it. Sam was kind of reluctant, but he did the research and even sneaked out here one day to check it out for himself and said it was clean. There was no evidence that he could see of anything supernatural. Otherwise he’d have found some way of making the trip not happen. He’s not interested in hunting, just in –“

“Keeping safe,” Jim finished. “Both himself and the people he cares about. I know, Meli. I’m the one who helped to hide his applications from his father. I… yeah.” He glanced at the form in the bed. “Something put him here.”

“You’d have to talk to the folks who were there.” She gave a little laugh, glowering at the door. “They didn’t exactly want the RA along, you know? Think they’re hiding something.” 

“And what exactly would they need to hide, hmm?” He glanced back at Sam. 

“You’ll need to ask them yourself, Pastor. Seal of the confessional and all that. But they don’t know that I know about anything beyond what you can see with your own two eyes, so whatever it was that did this they’re all singing the same tune.” She glanced out the window. “There were two others who were injured. Ginny Reynolds is on one of the regular wards, although I think they’ve got her sedated. She was on the same flight as Sam, actually. And Brandon Sutter’s leg was broken pretty badly, although I think he’ll be good to go home today or tomorrow. Brady and Sam are pretty close, you could start with him. He’s tight with Ginny too.” The corners of her mouth twitched. The gesture was so reminiscent of Sam that the priest almost suspected possession.

“How long have you been here, Meli?” he asked her then.

“Since I got the call from Brady,” she admitted. 

“It’s been a while.” “Why don’t you go and get a change of clothes, a shower, some food. I’ll be right here, and the other students might feel more comfortable ‘confessing’ alone. I promise Sam is absolutely safe with me. I won’t let anything resembling harm come to him and I won’t breathe a word of this to his father.” 

“Or that brother of his,” she added quickly. “You know that boy’ll just do what John tells him.”

“Sam’s given you a lot of details.” He had to give a sad smile. “All right. Nothing to Dean either. Go get what you need. I’ll be here. If you could ask Mr. Brady to come in and have a chat with me, though, it would be very helpful.”

***John ***

John listened to Dean’s fears about the attack in California. “You don’t think… he was out there, do you?” the boy asked. His freckles stood out as the color drained away from his face. 

He held himself still as he replied. What exactly should he say? What could he say? Because of course Sam would have been tied up in it somehow. The absolute best-case scenario was that the dumb kid had been along for the ride and something had come along and gotten the drop on them because the damn kid would just walk around with his head in the sand playing Johnny Normal. Like he had any right to it. Maybe the demons had come for him at last and he’d just gotten a bunch of innocent kids caught up in it. Or maybe he’d kicked over a hornet’s nest just to see what would happen, because Sam had that kind of a streak in him too, yes he did. Of course, he couldn’t say any of that to Dean. “No. No I don’t, Dean,” he finally said. “I don’t think it would be because I’d like to think we gave him enough sense to not go horsing around where there are monsters. He’s not the kind of kid to attach others, not enough that they’d bring him along on a group camping trip. No one would want him around that long. And even if he were there, Dean, it wouldn’t be any of our business. He left. He’s not our problem anymore.” Okay, maybe it wasn’t all true. Sam had been part of quite the little knot of people when he’d seen him before leaving Stanford the last time, and there had been plenty of folks who seemed to want to stick up for him in the dorm. “Call that bastard Singer and tell him we need him here.” It was time to remind Dean to focus. Sam had made his bed; it was time for him to lie in it.

John dug back into his work. Idiots in California who were too stupid to stay away from things that would kill them were not his problem. Mothmen that got people killed in Minnesota were. He pored over Father Nick’s notes, scanning through page upon page of irrelevant data. It didn’t take him long to decide that the problem with Father Nick had been his absolute refusal to separate his hunting life from his pastoral life. He guessed it made sense that the guy would see the two missions as united; if you believed in all that Heaven crap saving souls would be saving souls no matter if it was fighting the demon of debauchery or the demon that actually walked the Earth. It was significantly less useful to those who came afterward to unite those two missions on paper, however.

He smirked. So much for the sanctity of the confessional. Father Nick had a bad habit of writing everything down, lest it become important later on. How could people really not know so much about the people they lived with, the people they were married to? Affairs, gambling, addiction, financial distress – it all spilled out into the pages just in case the pattern needed to be picked out later. There was one couple – the Wilhelmsens. According to the good pastor, Mrs. Wilhelmsen had enjoyed a previous career in organized crime. Seriously – how could her husband be so incredibly in the dark? The woman had been a contract killer! How could he just… not know that she had all these skills? It strained credulity. Of course, beautiful and pure Mary had been an open book to him. People could have learned a lot from their marriage. Maybe they’d had the occasional spat or two, but theirs had been a match made in Heaven and no mistake. 

He needed to focus. Sure, their marriage had been perfect. Look where it had gotten them. Mary was dead these nineteen years now and still unavenged, her last gift to him possibly a monster that would need to be put down. If Sam had been at that park, one of those campers… if he had been one of the injured… if he had been the one killed… would that have been such a bad thing? Dean would be devastated, of course, but he’d get over it. He was a soldier; you didn’t sit there and lose your mind at every death in a war, you’d never get anything done. And if Sam really had been attractive to demons for some reason, wouldn’t it save everyone a lot of time and trouble for him to have gone out like this with no trouble or risk to anyone?

It was a horrible thought to have. A father should be beside himself with worry at the thought of his youngest son’s injury or death. He should be on the phone with Jim Murphy right now, forcing him to tell him if Sam were alive or dead or what. (He should have Sam’s number for himself, to make the call on his own.) 

At the same time, he’d never really built a bond with Sam the way he had with Dean. It just hadn’t worked. Maybe if Mary had lived it would have been different. She’d have known how to get past the silence, the mistrust. Maybe she’d have managed to get a smile out of the little brat. 

“Dad? Bobby Singer’s here.” Dean’s voice interrupted his musing. The hunter started violently to notice that five hours had passed since he’d sat down to the table with the volumes of nonsense. Anything could have happened while he was lost in his thoughts. They could have been attacked or Dean could have taken off or the rectory could have caught fire or anything. He needed to keep his mind on the job. 

He rose to his feet, walking to the kitchen door that all the hunters used. What the hell was wrong with Singer anyway? It only took three hours to get from Sioux Falls to Blue Earth – two if you took I-90, not that any hunter worth his salt would take the interstate if he could possibly avoid it. It wasn’t like the guy had to wrap up with a girl or anything. “Singer,” he greeted from the doorway while Dean embraced the salvage yard operator. “Glad you could make it.” 

Dark eyes glared at him. “Winchester.”

Dean glanced nervously at his father. “It sure is good to see you, Bobby,” he grinned, taking the older man’s coat and guiding him to a seat. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I know it’s sudden.”

“I talked to Jim.” It was like someone took a moulding plane to Bobby’s voice when he spoke to the younger Winchester, shaving off all of the sharp edges. “I get that it was a really sudden thing. Fortunately things aren’t too busy at the Yard and I was able to con Rufus into keeping an eye on the phones for me, so it’s not a big deal. So – mothman, huh?” 

“Yeah. We could use all the help we can get, Bobby. Have you ever seen one of these things before?” “Me? No, not personally.” He accepted the beer Dean passed him, keeping a wary eye on John. The kid got a beer for John too before grabbing one for himself. Where he’d learned those manners John had no idea. “I wasn’t able to get my hands on that Wilson guy’s journal on such short notice but I did manage to talk to the guy who has it, a collector out of Camden named Eddie Reynoso.”

John felt his face screwing up. He couldn’t really stop it. “So what now, there’s a guy who just hangs around and… collects old hunting journals?” 

Singer shrugged. “Everyone needs a hobby I guess. He’s an old guy, doesn’t get around really well. He sometimes gets good old manuscripts and such-like for me, and sometimes I sell to him. You know how it is.” John didn’t know how it was. Why you’d get into a business relationship with a guy like that really escaped him. Maybe the guy was old, but he could probably do the world some real good by providing information to the people who were out there slogging in the trenches instead of trying to turn a profit off them. “Anyway, he flipped through the journal for me and told me a few things. According to Wilson, these things are tough sons of bitches to kill. They’ve got exoskeletons.” 

Dean frowned. “What, that’s like, a skeleton on the outside?”

John beamed. His boy didn’t need some bookworm to define the “hard” words for him. “That’s right, Dean. Good job. Does the exoskeleton cover everything?” 

“Well, no. But the armored skin does.” He took a deep pull of his beer. “Have you ever gone poking at a moth? They’re actually pretty impressive bugs.”

“So how are we supposed to kill the damn thing, Bobby?” the senior Winchester demanded, scowling. “How did Wilson get it?”

“Well, that’s the thing, ain’t it?” He smirked. “It’s not like the guy was in any shape to leave detailed notes about what worked. I mean, yeah. He killed it. We don’t know what actually worked. His notes said that he thought that the wings were going to be vulnerable, and then there was something about dynamite.” 

“Dynamite,” Dean repeated. 

“Yup. Dynamite. I’m guessing it would have to go down the hatch, ‘cause it sounds like the armor would be pretty impervious.” He belched. “I’m pretty sure that if we could get a glimpse at the autopsy report for Wilson we could probably manage to get a better idea of whether or not he died from the blast or something else. It might give us a clue.” 

“You got a line on a reliable hacker?” Dean queried. “Ours went AWOL.” 

“Jim recommended this Taurus guy out of California. I can shoot him a line, I guess.” 

John slammed his beer down. It spilled down the sides of the bottle, coating his hand with foam. “Who do you think we’ve been working with, Singer?” 

“Oh.” His tiny eyes widened. “Oh. Well, crap.” He sighed. “Hey, Dean. You feel like taking a little road trip with me? We’ll tell ‘em we’re claims investigators from an insurance firm, unclaimed property or some crap. You’ve got to have a clean suit somewhere, right?” 

Dean turned to face John. “Sir?” 

And damn it, wasn’t that just like the bastard? He hated – just hated – the fact that Singer was taking any authority over this case. And he had no rights over Dean at all, damn it. But looking at Dean now – he wanted to do this. And John needed to show that he trusted his boy. He needed to demonstrate his faith. “Go ahead. Tomorrow morning.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Singer gave him a spiteful little grin, because even though John had regained some semblance of control over the situation it was the salvage man who’d actually won. The gin-soaked pseudo-scholar had one-upped John with his own son, probably just for the fun of it. But they did need the information – and it would get Singer away from him for a little while. The drive out to Lancaster, Ohio would be at least a fifteen hour drive – no way they wouldn’t be gone for at least a couple of days. 

They got pizza for dinner and made uncomfortable shop talk for a while. Bobby’d been manning the phones for a few hunters, providing backup for their scams as feds or marshals or whatever. John tried to not get involved with anything that required that much of an involved scam, personally, but he could see where that would be useful. He’d gotten more into the research side of things too. It was like a plague. Not that the research wasn’t useful – not at all. But how could a man hole up like that and just surround himself with books when people were dying? And what kind of a man could really claim the title if he wouldn’t go out and fight the good fight while he still could? Singer was as able-bodied a man as any John had ever seen, and wilier than any ten damn cartoon _canis latrans_. Why shouldn’t he still be on the road? It wasn’t like he had anything to tie him to Sioux Falls besides the house his damn wife had died in and the junkyard. Still, for all that the roof was held up with dry rot and old grimoires his old tomes had plenty of knowledge in them, and he’d made use of the place to dump the boys when he’d had to before the old man had gone sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. If the guy wasn’t going to go into the hunt whole-hog he might as well be useful. 

After dinner Bobby’s phone rang. “Singer,” he answered without looking at the screen. “Jim! Hey, yeah. I’m here with John and Dean – Oh.” He got up and left the room. “Jesus, Jim. That’s a shame. You think –“ He kept walking down the hallway and into the sanctuary, closing the door behind him. 

The Winchesters glanced at each other. “So,” Dean said, licking his lips. “You think he’s got news about –“

“I think you need to keep your mind on the damn mothman, Dean,” he told his son with a snarl. “You’re going off with Singer tomorrow on a job, not on a pleasure cruise. You keep your focus. I don’t want him thinking I raised two low-lifes, you understand me?”

He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

John fixed him with a glare for a minute. “You’re dismissed, Dean.” 

The blond scurried up to the attic room. John waited until he couldn’t hear him walking anymore, and then he went over to the kid’s laptop. How hard could it really be to find news about the attacks? Sam had tried to show him once. Just “mountain lion” and “Palo Alto,” right? It didn’t look like there was any new information. 

This was one of those times when it would have been useful to have Sam around. He would have found what John wanted in five seconds, along with about ten different pages of the things he should have been looking for in the first place. Of course if Sam had been around he wouldn’t have needed to be looking at Stanford in the first place beyond a potential case. He pulled out his phone and looked at it. 

Bobby Singer came back to the room before he could use it. “Where’d Dean go?” he wanted to know. 

“Bed. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you tomorrow,” he grunted. “That Jim?” Of course it was Jim. He’d heard the guy say “Jim,” for crying out loud. Who else was it going to be, the freaking pizza guy? But there were social niceties to be observed even when they seemed absurd. 

“Yeah. Looks like he’s going to be there a while. Kid’s out of surgery but nowhere near out of the woods.” John had always kind of wondered why his old nemesis had grown such a full beard, but now he knew. It would take a very observant man, and one who knew Singer well, to see how shaken up the scholar really was. “It doesn’t look good, Winchester.” 

“Did he say what happened?” “Mountain lion, just like the reports said. All the kids have the same story. There’s one kid dead, one mauled near to death, one cut up bad enough to need a chopper out herself and one got his leg broke pretty bad.”

He drank from his beer again. “Mountain lions are usually pretty solitary, Singer.”

He shrugged. “Everyone there’s singing the same song. You got someone out there you want to sic on it, you be my guest. There’s one hunter out there – damn good at it if I remember right. ‘Course, someone told him how crappy he was until he threw it all aside and turned his brain to something more profitable instead.” 

“You don’t know anything about it,” he hissed. “He needed to learn his place.” 

“Oh he learned his place all right, Johnny. He learned it real good. I’m sure you’d be real proud of the place he’s got for himself now.” He got up again. “I hope you’re satisfied.” He walked off toward the stairs. 

John stared at the laptop. Singer was an old fool. He wasn’t a father, he’d never been. What would he know about raising two boys at all, never mind raising them alone? Never mind having to train them to be soldiers at the same time? And with every sign pointing at one of them being some kind of monster or being corrupted in some way – well, no, Bobby Singer could go straight to Hell, thank you very much. 

He picked up his phone again and opened up his contacts, scrolling until he found the one he wanted. “Mac Leeson? Hi, this is John Winchester. How are you doing?” 

His partner for the job he’d worked out in California chuckled. “Still hobbling around, but you know. It’s better than the alternative, I guess. How are you doing, John? I would have figured you’d have wanted to put California so far in your rear-view mirror that the eyes would roll right out of your head.” 

He grimaced at the image. “Uh, yeah. Well, you know how it is. I kind of do, but I caught wind of something a little weird. Did you hear about the mountain lion attacks outside of Palo Alto yesterday?” 

Leeson gave a long, low whistle. “Did I ever. Guess they had to fly two of those kids out of there.” “Well, didn’t that sound a little suspicious to you? I mean, mountain lions don’t really work that way. They don’t work in packs, you know?” He bit his lip.

“You think it might be a case?”

“I think it could be.”

“Huh. Well, I’m kind of laid up but I know a couple of guys that could go check it out or something.” 

“Thanks, Leeson. A buddy of mine might be involved with one of the victims,” he suggested on a hunch. Jim hadn’t said he was going to Stanford, but John wasn’t stupid either. “His name is Jim Murphy. He’s there as a priest, but he’s also a hunter. He’s safe to speak with.”

“All right. I’ll see what we can see and let you know.” 

“Thanks, Leeson.” He hung up.

***Dean ***

Dean and Bobby took off in the Impala took off before first light the next morning. The younger hunter couldn’t keep the bounce from his step. Maybe he was looking at one seriously long-ass drive and maybe Bobby was a little hung over, but he was in the driver’s seat and there was a freaking warm body in shotgun. The fact that the warm body happened to belong to one of his favorite people in the entire freaking world was a bonus. So what if the guy was probably going to sleep for the first three or four hours of the trip? He was still there. And maybe he wasn’t exactly the biggest classic rock fan in the universe but Dean would cheerfully tolerate a little Johnny Cash if it meant someone to talk to. And the guy was smart – smart enough to make up for not having Sammy around, especially since he wasn’t half as prissy as Sammy. 

They switched places at regular intervals – they didn’t plan to break the trip up, so staying fresh was key. On their way they passed the time by talking about the hunts they’d been on that hadn’t involved each other. Bobby laughed about Dean’s adventures in Fall River, although he took off his hat and hit him with it when he found out about his having hunted a black dog alone. “What was I supposed to do, Bobby? Thing was going after people. It had to be put down.”

“Ever think about finding someone to go after it with you, idjit?” He shook his head and returned the grubby cap to its rightful place. “It’s not like there aren’t other hunters in New England, you know.” 

“Then why does the Bridgewater Triangle still exist?”

“Because that place is beyond human help. All hunters can do is try to minimize the damage. And most folks around there have the sense to not go making trouble around there. If local people know that something’s luring people out into the Devil’s Swamp, they avoid the swamp. That kind of thing. If you put that same phenomenon out in South Dakota or California or Maryland or just about anyplace else, I think people would be dying at a rate that would just boggle the mind. Around there people just kind of shrug it off and adapt. Anyway, I’d have hooked you up with a partner for that hunt, Dean.” 

“Aw, Bobby, you know it ain’t the same. Working with strangers – it just don’t sit right with me.” He squirmed. 

“It’s up to you. I ain’t the one that’s got a torso looks like Frankenstein’s Monster. Listen, have you heard from your brother?” 

“Bobby, Sam left. He’s gone.” He turned his eyes to the road. This wasn’t another test – Bobby wasn’t Dad. Bobby had taken him to play baseball when Dad wanted him to practice with the double barrel.

“Ain’t what I asked you, boy.” 

“I changed my phone number, okay?” 

“I remember when you changed it, but –“ 

“I changed it so he’d stop calling me.” He clenched his jaw. 

“So he was trying to reach out to you.”

“He knew the consequences. He abandoned us. He walked away.” 

“Hm. And he didn’t ask you to come with him?”

Dean glanced at his mentor. “Do you really think that matters? You know that would never happen. We’re the Winchesters. We stick together. When he decided to take off he destroyed that. He doesn’t get to have it both ways, Bobby. If he’s part of the family he has to be right here. With me. Hunting full-time, watching my back, just like Dad always intended. Not prancing around some… some school pretending to be someone he’s not.”

“And who is he, Dean?”

“He’s my little brother.” He moistened his lips. “At least he used to be. I guess.” 

“I see.” 

“What’s with all the Sammy questions, Bobby? He pestering you or something? ‘Cause you can feel free to tell him to go to Hell.” He glanced out the window.

“No, no. I haven’t actually spoken directly to him in… oh, years. At least seven of them. Maybe more, I can’t quite remember. I was just thinking. I’m sure he’s gotten the message. You know, when he called and got the message that your number had been disconnected. He knew you didn’t want him.” 

“He should have thought about that before he walked away.” He pushed play on the tape deck. 

Bobby pushed stop. “You don’t have to fake it with me, Dean. I know you’re loyal to your daddy. Don’t I know it! But you can’t tell me that you don’t miss him.” 

“Does it matter, Bobby?” he exploded. “It doesn’t matter if I miss him or not. You’re either all in or you’re all out. Sammy’s all out.” 

“Is he really?” “Yes. He is. All in is here, with me, in his place.” He drew a shuddering sigh. “I couldn’t keep him here. I failed Dad. And I know he’s never going to get over that. He’s never going to forgive me for that. It was my job to keep Sammy in line, and I failed. He turned out willful and he turned out disobedient and he couldn’t hunt for crap and he couldn’t even manage to want to help people because I couldn’t give him decent human values. That’s on me, Bobby. So let him stay gone.” 

The older man looked at him for a while. “Well. I’m pretty sure that’ll work out, then.” They drove in silence until the next change of drivers. 

They reached Lancaster after a grueling fifteen-hour drive and checked into a motel. Bobby, unlike John, proved very willing to get separate rooms. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. On the one hand sharing was both cheaper and safer – if one didn’t wake during an attack the other one might. On the other, privacy was certainly a selling point. When they went to a local bar-and-grill to grab dinner and the waitress showed a certain interest in bearded gentlemen with hats Dean found himself especially glad of the privacy, especially when he had to turn up the television to drown out the noise on Bobby’s side of the wall. 

The next day they donned their suits and approached the police department. Dean let Bobby speak to the officers. He didn’t like cops, never had and never would, and it tended to show in his conversations with them. He listened to the patter the older man gave them and tried to commit it to memory. “Hi, good morning,” he greeted with a professional smile. “My name’s Robert Turner. I’m with the insurance firm of Singer and Campbell out of Sioux Falls, South Dakota and I’m investigating a claim related to a case that went cold in your department maybe, oh, twenty-nine years ago? A guy by the name of Horace Wilson was found dead and now two possible heirs are fighting over an insurance policy he had that’s been unclaimed all these years.” He let out a little snort. “You’d think they’d have noticed that the guy was dead maybe… I don’t know, twenty-eight years ago?” 

The detective gave a little chuckle. “Tell me about it.” He rolled his whiskey-colored eyes. “How can I help you clear the vultures from your skies, my friend?” Dean thought he might need to re-think his policy on cops. 

“Well, a copy of the full police report would be ideal, but the autopsy report would probably suffice,” he said after a moment’s thought that the younger hunter knew to be entirely fictional. “Basically the third cousin twice removed is trying to claim that the second cousin twice removed hounded him to suicide and so can’t claim a closer relationship.” He shook his head. “Some people, I guess.” 

Whatever this detective was on, Dean wanted some. “Hey, man. It keeps you employed, am I right? Listen, we’ve got an intern spends all day on the Internet. Let me go give him something to do. Make yourselves comfortable.” He disappeared into a back room, leaving Dean and Bobby to sit and wait.

Both men checked their phones. Bobby answered a few emails. Dean only had a couple of texts from Caleb, one of which was an entirely inappropriate photo sent from a bar wherever his friend was and which Dean deleted immediately. Having only hunters in one’s social network had its good points, but they tended not to have good social filters when they’d been drinking. The other bragged about taking down a rawhead. Better Caleb than Dean – Dean hated rawheads.

Bobby spent more time on his messages, which only made sense. He had his finger in a lot more pies than Dean did. He guessed Taurus was like a more technologically enabled Bobby in that regard, although the guy still seemed to think of himself as a part-timer. Dad didn’t really like that, but seemed to be more okay with it in Bobby’s case. There was no one on Earth who knew as much about everything – all kinds of lore – as Bobby. He remembered that they’d been able to just leave Sammy in the library there for hours at a time, even when he was only what, five? Six? 

After an hour the detective came back with a huge folder full of paper. “Here you go, gentlemen. Horace Wilson’s case file. Nothing’s really redacted, because there’s nothing to really bring to trial. If you come up with anything though you be sure to let us know, would you?” 

“Sure thing, Detective.” Bobby gave his best winning smile and they returned to the motel.

After packing quickly, the men got back into the Impala and started the long drive west. To be honest Dean could have done with another day – he was still pretty beat – but they were on a case after all, and it would just be selfish to be thinking about his own comfort. People were dying; they’d never know the comfort of a bed again. He could sacrifice a little shut-eye to make sure no one else lost their lives right? He wasn’t a selfish bastard like his brother. 

They staggered into the rectory at three in the morning. Dean crawled into his bed in the attic, too exhausted to even contemplate the empty bed across the way. His father kindly even let him sleep until six before waking him for a morning run. “You need the activity,” he insisted, throwing Dean’s boots gently at him by way of a wake-up call. “All that sitting in the car will cause blood clots. Come on. Up and at ‘em. People are dying.”

After their run Dean went out for doughnuts and coffee. They waited for Bobby to wake up by drinking said coffee and poring over the news. Knowing Dad he was probably looking for a new case. He’d probably want them to take off right after Thanksgiving. There was no news about the not-a-mountain-lion attacks. That was good, right? That meant no one new had died.

“Where’s the autopsy report?” Dad asked him. 

“Bobby has it, sir,” Dean reported. “It’s up in his room.”

“Why the hell does Singer have it? You couldn’t have kept hold of it? Jesus, Dean, can’t I count on you for anything?” the older Winchester snapped at him. 

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t want to make waves with Bobby, I know you don’t get along.” He looked at the floor. 

“Instead you’re making excuses with me. I knew I should have gone with him myself.” He shook his head. “Ridiculous. All right, try to make some use of yourself and see if you can’t find us a case for after Thanksgiving.” 

For a moment the spirit of rebellion rose up in Dean. “Well, there was this bunch of college freshmen got attacked in California. Said it was a mountain lion but I’m thinking something else. We could go check that one out.”

His father’s backhanded slap knocked him from his chair to the floor, spilling coffee over himself and the table. “Clean that up,” the senior Winchester growled, hauling Dean to his feet by the collar of his shirt. “And then I want two hundred knuckle pushups. Don’t ever think of mouthing off to me again, Dean. I will have discipline in this unit.” 

Dean went to get the paper towels. He should have known better. He had known better but he’d done it anyway. What the Hell had even come over him? He’d just burst out with that little gem like he’d been Sammy. Was Sammy possessing him? No, he didn’t feel possessed. He was just frustrated, mostly with himself. He should have known enough to ask for the police file; he’d known his dad would want it. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, of course. Thinking wasn’t what Dad kept him around for. Thinking was for guys like Dad, like Sammy. They came up with the orders; Dean’s job was to put them into action. That was all. 

Bobby came in when Dean was on pushup number fifty or so. He glanced at Dean. “You’re bleeding, Dean,” he observed, tossing the police report down onto the table. “Looks like a split lip.”

“Yessir,” Dean grunted. 

“He’s fine, Singer,” Dad retorted. “Let’s take a look at this and see what we can see.”

The older men sat down together, and murmured over the autopsy photos. Dean focused on his pushups, on the physical action of lowering his body and raising it again. He kept his muscles in perfect form, knowing that his father was watching and would come down like an ACME anvil on anything that was even the slightest bit out of place even as he pored over the report and exchanged ideas with Bobby. At the same time, Dean couldn’t help but feel Bobby’s eye on him too. Probably judging him for provoking his dad. Hell, he’d thought the same things every time Sammy’d brought the Wrath of Dad down on himself, hadn’t he? When he finished his punishment he cleaned up the blood. Only then did he go upstairs, after a glance of dismissal from his father, to clean himself up and deal with the split lip. He knew what the glance meant; he’d experienced it enough times in his youth, although mostly directed at Sammy. He was to be excluded from this part of the planning. Well, that was fine. He didn’t do so hot in the planning department anyway. 

When the bleeding had stopped he retreated to his own room. Deep in the bottom of his duffel he’d hidden a book, a Vonnegut number he’d stolen from a bookstore he’d passed by however many towns ago. If he left a machete and a sharpening stone on the bedside table it would be easy enough to make it look like he’d been maintaining his equipment. In the meantime, he could escape for just a little while.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim learns more about Sam than he wanted; John and Bobby go egg hunting; Dean is resourceful.

***Jim ***

It didn’t take Jim long to get a slightly more accurate picture of what had actually happened out of Tyson Brady than Meli had. Meli was just the RA; Jim had the whole clerical collar thing going for him and for a good Catholic boy like Brady probably had been at some point that went for a lot. It took him a few moments to break through the boy’s hesitation – he had, after all, only recently witnessed a tragedy involving two apparently very close friends – but Jim got to him eventually. “Sam – he trusted you, right?” he said softly, looking down at the still form of his friend. “The last thing he said before he went down was ‘The priest knows.’ So obviously he trusted you about something.” He reached out, probably unconsciously, and took Sam’s still hand.

Jim made a mental note of the gesture but didn’t let himself react. “Sam and I are pretty close, Tyson,” he assured him. “I’ve known him since he was a very small child. You can tell me anything.” 

He huffed out a little semi-laugh. “The things that attacked us weren’t mountain lions. It was the only thing we could think of on short notice that would make any sense. Um, they kind of looked like… giant owls? I guess?” 

Jim considered. “Owl-men?” 

His eyes widened. “Yeah! That’s what Sam said when he woke up from his nap during the attack! He stuck his head out of his tent and said, ‘Owl-men? But they’re solitary!’ and then went back in for his guns.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled, looking down at the hand he still held before letting it go. “Um. There were six. Their attack was kind of… coordinated, I guess.” He described how two of them had gone after one of the girls, and then how two more had gone after her roommate. Apparently they liked to pull their victims up into the sky, so if they got away the fall would injure if not kill them. That was what had caused most of Sam’s internal injuries as well as the broken leg on the other boy – the dead girl had been dropped onto Brandon Sutter's leg from a great height. 

Brady trembled violently when he finished his description of how Sam had fought the monsters and killed them all. He’d been too late to save the first victim, but the fact that Ginny was alive – to say nothing of the rest of them – was due entirely to Sam. He’d managed to hold it together enough to instruct them to throw the bodies into the ravine and take his guns, too.

Jim shook his head in amazement. “Trouble doesn’t half but find this boy,” he murmured. 

“Do you see much of his father? Or his brother?” Brady wanted to know. 

“He was at my rectory when I got the call to come here,” he admitted. “He doesn’t know what happened to Sam yet.” 

“When you do tell him – whatever happens, whatever you need to tell him – you tell him that Sam’s a hero, you hear me? You tell him that the boy he never wanted saved twenty-three lives by himself, okay?” 

Jim sighed. “I’ll tell him, Tyson. I don’t know as he’ll listen, but as soon as I have something to tell him I’ll be sure to let him know.” 

Talking to the other kids – young people – brought more of the same. They hesitatingly confirmed the owl men story and vehemently confirmed that it had been Sam who saved them. The priest found himself amazed by the very concept. He’d only vaguely heard of owl-men. They were native to Cornwall, so what they were doing in California was anyone’s guess, and apparently when they’d been introduced to the Golden State their behavior had changed. In their native environment they were just as solitary as mothmen. Here they’d learned to band together, apparently. Had they been brought together by some sort of spell or force? Or had they just evolved that way, learning to work as a team as a response to some other kind of predator? Meli had told him that Sam had checked the place out for any hint of the weird or unexplainable before agreeing to the camping trip, so there had been no suggestion that a parcel of six cryptids had been anywhere near the park. So they’d either been summoned or… maybe they were migrating? It was a good time of year for it. 

And Sam had just… taken them out. One hunter. To hear his father tell it Sam couldn’t hunt his way out of a wet paper sack. Apparently John Winchester hadn’t gotten the memo, because Jim had a whole pile of witnesses to the contrary. He shook his head.

When Meli came back to the room a few hours later there was still no change in Sam’s condition, but he was able to deliver a report to her about Sam’s heroics. She wasn’t surprised. “Of course he did,” she said, rolling magnificent dark eyes. “God forbid that the man take some time off.” 

“So you’re not at all surprised that he…” 

“What? No. I mean, I haven’t seen him shoot or anything but yeah, I know he can. He’s pretty bad-ass. Has he ever hunted with you before?” She glanced out the window. 

“His father kept him on a pretty tight leash.”

She snorted. “I’ll bet.” 

He glanced at the door. “So. Can you fill me in on his life here at school?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? So his father can target his friends and lovers too?” 

He shook his head. “No. I do support his being here, Meli. I just… want to know that it’s worth it. To him. I mean, he’s given up everything to be here. I hope he’s gotten something out of it besides just getting away from John.” 

“Getting away from John Winchester would be enough anyway. You should have seen him when he showed up at the floor meeting.” She grimaced, and then forced herself to relax some. “But… I mean, yeah. I think he thinks it’s worth it, for the most part. He’s having to learn to be a civilian and I think that’s very hard for him, you know? He’s never done that before. He’s never just been a person and you can see that in everything he does, if you look for it.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Well, for example, he’s never had a date. Any one of the girls on our floor – the unattached ones who like boys anyway – would sacrifice their right eye to be his girlfriend. He’s attentive and he’s smart, and he’s about as sweet as a man can be.” He smiled a little. If she counted herself in that number he wouldn’t be even remotely surprised. “And if they go to his room, he’s willing enough to give them what they ask for.” 

He blinked. “That’s… unexpected.” He could feel a blush filling his cheeks. “It’s behavior I’d expect from his brother, but not from him.”

“He’s never made the first move. Not from what I’ve heard. And I think he’d be very open to a more committed relationship, but he has no clue under God how to make that happen. He thinks that casual’s all he’s good for, because he’s a Winchester.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, one of the scratchy ones that the hospital generously provided. “I have no idea how to respond to that. Anyway, he runs himself absolutely ragged. There’s not a minute of his day when he’s just hanging out and looking for something to do, or playing games on his computer, or anything like that. He’s always just… working. Studying, or translating – he makes money by translating Latin. Or he’s doing research for hunters, but you knew that.”

“You don’t approve,” he gleaned from her tone.

“No, no I don’t. Hunters threw him away like old garbage but they’re perfectly willing to use him when they don’t know it’s him, and the boy doesn’t know any better than to let them.” She glanced at him. “You must be hungry. Why not go get yourself something from the cafeteria?” 

He considered. It wasn’t as though Sam was going anywhere. He got someone to direct him and found his way to and from the cafeteria, where he choked down a fish sandwich and some fries around providing impromptu grief counseling to a man whose wife had slipped into a probably terminal coma following a stroke. It was the collar. It summoned people, and his nature was to help if he could, even if the only help available was to sit back and let someone talk.

He picked up an ice cream sandwich for Meli, because she probably needed a pick-me-up, and headed back up to the ICU. Of course he found himself trapped with a cardiologist the entire time who insisted on lecturing him on why religion was an outmoded concept solely used to stupefy the masses into obedience. It was a lot like being trapped in an elevator with John Winchester, only with garlic breath and bad gas. He smiled politely and wished him peace on his way out of the elevator, because the kind of guy who felt the pressing need to lash out at a stranger like that was probably already having a bad day, and started going back toward Sam’s room when the sound of alarms made him run.

He wasn’t the only one. He stood to one side to allow a whole team of nurses and the doctor rush into the room. When he saw Meli on the floor, unconscious, he rushed in behind them. 

A redheaded young woman in a hospital johnny and nothing else had climbed up on top of Sam and straddled him. Her shoulders were both bandaged and slings hung discarded at her sides as she supported herself on the arms she probably wasn’t supposed to be using. Someone, presumably the girl, had ripped out the ventilator helping Sam to breathe. That would have been the reason for the alarms then, he thought clinically as he raced inside. The girl’s mouth was attached to Sam’s, which she pried open at the jaw with one hand. The other hand stroked his neck, much as one would encourage a dog to swallow a pill. A nurse seized each of her arms, but they proved unable to move any part of the assailant. Another nurse yelled for security while the doctor, trying to stay out of the way, checked on Meli.

Jim joined in the fray, grabbing the girl’s arms into a half nelson with one arm and grabbing her hair and pulling as hard as he possibly could with the other. On a hunch, he whispered, “Christo,” into her ear. 

It was the flinch that enabled him to pull her off of Sam. He caught just enough of a glimpse of black eyes – shiny like obsidian, inky enough to cover the entire eye – before they reverted to a normal human color. She grinned at them all, leaning back into Jim’s arms and panting with her mouth open and bloody. The reason for the blood was easy enough to see; she’d bitten off a large part of her tongue.

Two massive orderlies appeared, taking hold of the girl’s arms as she began to laugh. That laugh would haunt Jim’s dreams for years to come, he was certain. They strapped her to a gurney – as though that would do any good against a demon. Still, whatever the demon thought it had been doing here had obviously been accomplished because she didn’t fight. She let herself be wheeled away, laughing as the blood dripped down her face. 

The team worked quickly to assess Sam’s state, sending Meli to be scanned for head trauma. The doctor decided that she wanted to try a nasal cannula instead of subjecting his airway to another ventilator insertion if not absolutely necessary. The sudden extubation had not been kind to him and she would have wanted to try weaning him off the vent soon anyway, if only to prevent pneumonia on top of everything else. He would require even more careful monitoring, but it would be for the best. 

Jim nodded and tried to smile. “What about the other patient?” he demanded tensely. “She was… bleeding…”

“Well, the downside is that there does seem to have been some exchange of bodily fluid there,” Dr. Eppley admitted with a grimace. “I’ll look at her records. Because of the obvious health concerns I don’t think that there are any privacy issues. Sam is already on our broadest spectrum of antibiotics.” She glanced at the monitors. “Fortunately he doesn’t seem to be immediately the worse for wear. I’d still like to make sure that none of our hard work got dislodged and get a CT.” 

“Of course, of course.” He waved his hand. “Listen, I’m sure the security you’ve got here is great, but this isn’t exactly the first time that someone’s come after him since he’s been at Stanford. Would it be all right if I stayed here tonight?” 

She smiled gently. “I’ll get someone to bring up a more comfortable chair.” Sam was delicately unhooked from as many things as he could be unhooked from and transferred to a gurney. Jim was left alone in the room. 

His hands shook as he looked around himself. Sam had just been attacked by an actual demon. What was he going to be able to do about it? There were too many witnesses for him to exorcise the poor girl here in the hospital. And what exactly had she been doing to poor Sam?

Brady rushed in. The poor boy had lost almost as much color as the sheets and Jim had to grab him when he saw the blood on them. “Oh God – Sam?” he whispered. “What – that was Ginny, Father. What happened? Is Sam okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he told the youth, guiding him to a seat. “They’re examining him now. Tell me something, Tyson. Sam and Ginny – are they close?” Tyson blushed deeply. “I see. So they were in a relationship?” 

“I wouldn’t call it that. W-they fooled around. More like friends with benefits.” The tips of his ears were scarlet. “She wasn’t looking for anything committed, believe me.”

“So you wouldn’t say she had an unhealthy obsession with him in any way.”

“What? No. She encouraged other people to, uh…” He squirmed. “I’m not sure I should be talking about this with a priest. Or a family member.” 

“She was pimping him out?” 

“What? No! She could just see he was shy! Jeez. She wanted him to have some fun. And he had fun, believe me. Everyone involved had fun.” He looked away. “Is… is she okay?” 

“I… no, Tyson. Had she started acting strangely recently?”

“No, sir. I mean, right up until those… owl-men attacked she was just fine. Perfectly normal. She got hurt in the attack. I went to see her in her room once she was situated, to let her know how Sam was doing, and she just stared at the wall. I told her where we were, told her how Sam was doing, but she didn’t respond. Her parents said she hadn’t said a word the whole time since they’d been there.” He shrugged. “But her roommate had just been killed and one of her best friends close to it, so I don’t know what anyone expected.” 

“Did you notice anything else, Tyson? Anything even a little out of place?” 

“I guess there was a little bit of yellow dust on the sheet?” he hazarded after a moment. “There was nothing with pollen or anything at the campground; none of us had anything on us like that. Maybe a little bit of a smell on her, but after everything who knows?”

“Was it a little bit like rotten eggs?” 

He started. “Yes!”

“Okay. Thanks, Tyson. I need you to do me one more favor.” 

“What’s that?”

“I need for you to find out where Sam’s guns wound up along with any extra ammo that he might have packed. And then I’ll need you to bring them to me. This is the second time someone’s tried to attack him since he came to Stanford. I’m sure that hospital security is all well and good but I’m not taking any chances.” 

The boy straightened up. “Yes, sir.” He retreated to the waiting area. 

It took about an hour to get the guns and ammunition. “I have to say,” said the young man who actually presented the goods, a man who introduced himself as Harris. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a priest carry before.”

He gave a grim smile. “You’ve probably seen several,” he assured him. “Nobody ever believes it, though. You’d be surprised what we can get away with.” He grinned. 

“You’re on the same floor as Sam?”

“We’re in a bunch of the same classes, too. He keeps me honest.”

Housekeeping came in to change the sheets, because apparently lying in a pool of contaminated blood was a bad thing on an ICU. Jim settled in to wait. 

Sam was gone for another two hours before they wheeled him back in, motionless and unresponsive as ever. Things that had been detached were reattached, he was settled back into his bed and the doctor came back to talk to Jim. “It doesn’t actually look like Ginny – the patient who attacked Sam – had any communicable diseases,” she assured him. “It’s something to keep an eye on but I don’t think he’s likely to suffer any ill effects from this attack, assuming that he lives long enough. He does seem to be responding better to treatment than someone I’d normally see in his state, though.”

He frowned. “In his state?” 

She sat in Meli’s vacated chair. “Father Murphy, you’ve been acquainted with Sam and his family situation for some time, correct?” He nodded, perplexed. “I’m noticing a lot of old injuries – fractures, joint injuries, that sort of thing – they all showed up on the x-ray. And there are more scars than I would really expect for someone who is only nineteen.” 

“He’s had a rough life, doctor. I’m not going to pretend that he hasn’t. I’d hoped that it was in the past.” He sighed. “This is the first real medical care he’s gotten in a good ten years, you know.” 

“Are there more children in the parental home?” 

“No. Just an older brother – he’s twenty-three. Old enough to choose to be there.” He glanced at her. “Sam doesn’t have any contact with his family. There’s a reason I was called when he was brought in, doctor. I haven’t told them what’s going on, and I’m not going to.” 

“There’s evidence of chronic undernutrition, too,” she hesitated. “He’s… um… I wouldn’t expect it in a guy his height but I’m wondering if there aren’t some other issues there. Um… this is difficult to bring up with a family member, but his RA suggested that he is… maybe a little obsessive about working out. And that he’s uncomfortable around food.”

Jim froze. “You think he’s got, what, an eating disorder or something? His family had nothing.” 

She bit her lip. “I understand that, Father Murphy. I’m suggesting that in cases with patterns similar to what I’m seeing in Sam’s bones, combined with the information that I’ve gained from some of his friends and from his RA, that there might be an underlying cause. I would probably recommend that he speak with a trauma or grief counselor anyway. He’s had a catastrophic injury and he’s had to watch a friend die. Another friend is probably going to go away for a very long time and will never be the same again. This is bound to have some kind of effect, Father. It’s not like anyone’s having anyone labeled. They’re just going to want to make sure he’s doing okay.”

He sighed. Hunters didn’t do counseling. When they did, they tended to take extended vacations to very secure places. But Sam wasn’t a hunter anymore. Besides, he’d know how to fob off the shrinks, right? And maybe it could be helpful, assuming that he could benefit without talking about hunting at all. It wasn't like the kid didn't have an Impala-sized carload of issues. “The boy’s been through a lot,” he admitted with a shrug. “I’m sure he just wants to put it all behind him. That’s assuming he even wakes up of course.”

“He’s doing a bit better already,” she told him. “He’s got the oxygen, but he’s breathing. It’s a start.”

“What about Meli, the RA?” he asked. “How is she doing?”

“She got a nasty bump on the head. I have no idea how Ginny was able to launch her so hard across the room with her shoulders hurt the way they are, but I suppose adrenaline can do strange things. She’ll be kept overnight for observation because of the concussion. There will be a security officer outside of Sam’s room all night; he’ll be as safe as possible.”

“And Ginny?” he remembered to ask. 

“How is she doing?” “She’s been sedated, but it’s had no effect. I think she’s going to have to take a very long break. I’m sure the police will want to speak with you; even if you don’t want to press charges she’s… well, she’s obviously got some problems. I think her parents will want to talk with you at some point as well.” 

He cringed. Then again, maybe it would allow him access… “Okay. Maybe tomorrow.” 

“You’ve had a long day, Father. Why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

***John ***

There were two primary issues with any hunt: finding the nasty son of a bitch you were hunting, and killing it. Going after the mothman was no different, no matter how rare the critter was or how ugly. Signs pointed to dynamite as the best mechanism for executing it; that meant that he needed to find a source of dynamite. And of course he needed to find the mothman.

Dean had come up with a pretty workable theory, much as John hated to admit it. All of the sightings had been coming from that cemetery near Waseca, and if it was looking for someplace to mate you couldn’t ask for a better place to do it than up and around there. On the one hand it was good that Dean had those instincts, that he could get inside the monster’s head enough to understand what it was after without developing any untoward sympathies for the thing. On the other hand, Dean knew better than to jump the gun like that. This wasn’t Dean’s hunt, it was John’s and John was the one giving the orders here. A mothman wasn’t anything to go screwing around with. Dean wasn’t usually the one to go getting above himself like that. John needed to monitor that situation carefully, make sure he wasn’t giving Dean too free a rein just because he’d lost the other one. Just because he did okay with other things didn’t mean he knew his ass from his elbow with big, rare game like a mothman. 

What the boy was good at was sourcing. John set his son to finding a source for the dynamite they’d need to take the mothman down. This was something he could do, and he wouldn’t get in the way either. Dean would be grateful for the display of trust, cementing his loyalty even further. Not that it had ever been in question, but a guy in John’s position couldn’t be too careful. You never could tell these days. In the meantime, John and Bobby Singer went out and scouted the land where the mothman was most likely to be holed up. 

The only hunter known to have taken one of these things out had suggested that the things liked to hide out far away from prying eyes. He and Bobby headed out there to scout the place out – separately, of course, the old fool wouldn’t even speak to him at this point. Bobby took the north and east sections of the old boneyard, John took the south and west, and they met up in the middle. John didn’t see the mothman. He saw a few toppled gravestones, some crushed beer cans that told him that small town fun doesn’t really change with geography or time. It was a damn shame that kids felt compelled to go drink in cemeteries, though, or that if they were going to go drink in cemeteries they had to go litter on top of disrespecting the dead. 

He did find a bunch of cobweb-like silk fibers strewn in some trees. Was that an indicator of mothman activity or just normal bug leavings? He thought that those kinds of moths only lived back east and were only active in the spring and summer, but he wasn’t a bug guy. He was a hunter.

Sam would have known. He’d have known without being told to know. He’d have just blurted out the information, probably at a time when John was trying to concentrate on something else like figuring out how to kill the damned thing or how to make their last dollar stretch into next week, but he’d have known. He’d have shared the information in just the right way to make John feel a fool for not knowing, too. Like any half-decent man with two brain cells to rub together would have known about bug silks or some such shit. But he’d have known. The boy would have been a half-decent hunter if he’d have put that brain of his to learning the craft instead of stupid crap like bug silks. 

“You really think it’s out here?” Singer asked him, looking around. 

John shrugged. “It’s the most likely place. I may not be a big fan of Dean going over my head about it, but it’s the most likely place.” He indicated a giant oak off in the distance, past the columbarium. “Is it me or does that look like an ideal place to…”

“To stash some eggs?” his nemesis finished. “Come on, let’s check it out.” They jogged over to the tall, rectangular building. 

The interior of a columbarium was always a little creepy to John. From the outside they just looked like stacks of gravestones, but on the insides they were more like… filing drawers, really. They weren’t drawers, but that was the only analogy John could think of and he hated them. Drawers filled with urns, with naked bulbs to light the way for the rare staff member who might need to come in to make a new internment. John got cremation, he did. It was the ultimate destiny of all hunters’ bodies, and generally the only fate for anyone whose death involved the supernatural as well. But at least then the ashes would be scattered or buried, not just… stuck on a shelf to collect dust.

He made short work of the lock and the two men entered. Yeah, this was exactly what he expected, right down to the naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The gleaming white pile in the corner, though – those were something completely different. Singer looked at him. He looked at Singer. “Well,” the junkman told him. “I think we found the nest.” 

“The nursery, anyway,” he corrected. They approached, footsteps echoing on the concrete. “My God, Singer. They’re…” The eggs shone in the light, not just reflecting the pathetic yellow luminosity of the bare bulbs from the ceiling but cleaning it, purifying it and sending out a radiance that this hole had probably never seen before. “They’re like opals, Singer,” he breathed. 

Mary had loved opals.

Singer shot him a look. “They’re eggs, Johnny. You want ‘em scrambled or sunny side up?” He nudged the pile with his toe. “Damn! They’re harder than a rock!” 

John snorted. “Told you they were like opals.” 

“Well it ain’t like we can just leave ‘em here, Winchester.” Bobby turned to face him. “What do you want to do?” 

John considered. These eggs were breathtaking. Could something this beautiful really need destruction? But of course they weren’t going to stay shining orbs that purified the very light around them. They were going to hatch out monsters, and monsters had to be destroyed. There was no getting around it. He pulled out a pistol, took aim and fired. 

The bullet deflected, ricocheting wildly and grazing his own arm. “Fuck!” he yelled, pressing a hand to the injury.

Singer, bastard that he was, laughed out loud. “Yeah, okay. That right there? Priceless, Johnny. How about if we don’t do that again? If bullets won’t work on a mothman, why the hell would they work on a mothman’s eggs?” He shook his head. “Idjit.” 

John glowered, but shut his mouth. He had a first aid kit in the truck, but he’d do better if he had Singer’s help wrapping up the injury. Instead, he called Dean. “You’re going to have to increase the amount of dynamite you pick up, son,” he sighed heavily.

“Yes, sir.” Crisp, clean, efficient. So much to be proud of there. 

They made their way back to the rectory. Dean hadn’t gotten back yet, so John felt free to head up into his room to make some other phone calls. He called Adam first, just to check in. The boy was so happy to hear from him, just… just so happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that kind of joy from his older sons. Maybe it was the age; Adam was all of twelve, still very young. Maybe it was the life. Hunting wasn’t a lifestyle that allowed for much joy; John could admit that up here, between himself and the walls.

Maybe it was the boys themselves. Dean had grown up too fast, forced to play a man’s role when he’d been just a tiny little one himself. In a lot of ways that had forced the joy right out of him. He loved his father, he adored his father, he worshipped his father. He never displayed that kind of juvenile joy that Adam showed, though. Not since the night of the fire, when John had surprised him at the door to Sam’s nursery and he’d yelled, “Daddy!” and thrown his arms around his father with delight. 

And Sam – well. Sam just… Sam wouldn’t have known joy if it bit him on the ass. The rare explosion of affection that he did display had been reserved entirely for Dean, and once for Pastor Jim in a display that had embarrassed everyone. He’d been too old for that crap at five, and John had told him so, too. Certainly too old for it outside the family, anyway. With Sam it had been all watchfulness and resentment. 

Adam had none of that. He was just happy to hear from his father, the man who had created him. He wanted John to be involved with his life, and John wanted to be involved with his life. If he was going to keep that happy innocence, though, that love and affection, John had to protect him from the life he led. He had to hide Adam from his brothers – well, from Dean; Sam wasn’t part of anyone’s picture anymore. 

Adam begged him to come to the house for Thanksgiving again, and John found himself agreeing to it. He’d earned this, a family holiday. A break from all of the hunting drama and the angst of his first family. He deserved to spend some time being loved, around a son who felt nothing but joy at the sight of him.

He hesitated before the next call. Leeson had called while he’d been working on the mothman problem, and John knew that he should return the call and prove that Millie Winchester hadn’t raised a complete ass. Still, he hesitated. What was he so afraid of? Sam wasn’t likely to have been the injured student. At the absolute most, he might have called Jim out for help when he realized what had happened. And even if Sam had been the injured student, even if he’d been the one killed, he wasn’t John’s problem anymore.

His hand hovered over the button. He wasn’t John’s problem anymore, and sometimes John wondered if he ever really was. At the end of the day, though, he was still Mary’s son and John had still raised the boy. There wasn’t much he could do about anything that might or might not have befallen him either way, but at least he’d know, right? Knowing what had happened didn’t break his banishment. Finding out about his fate didn’t make John weak, and it wasn’t as though Dean would even know that he’d inquired. 

“Winchester!” Leeson greeted. “Hey, buddy. It’s good to hear from you.” 

“Leeson!” John greeted, slumping down into his chair. “How are you?” 

“Better every day. I’ve got some news about the little issue you asked me to look into.” He could hear the smile in the Californian’s voice. “Great! That’s good news.” 

“Well, it’s not as detailed as I’d like. See, my new physical therapist is at the hospital where they brought those kids. Seems like it sure was a mess. All the kids are saying mountain lion, but I asked some buddies to go take a look at the site and they found owl men bodies in the ravine. Six of ‘em, Winchester, with consecrated iron or silver bullets in ‘em.”

John frowned. “Owl men?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Owl men are solitary. They’re related to mothmen, which is what I’m working on up here.” “These are some solid hunters, John. If they tell me that they’re owl men, they’re owl men. They were pretty shocked, too, because there were absolutely no signs of cryptids in that area. You’d think they’d have noticed a flock of giant half-human, half-owl things swooping down and trying to eat campers. That kind of tends to make the papers.”

“So what, the kids are all hunters now?”

“I don’t know, John. They never did release names. The one who was killed on the scene was a girl, I know that much. “ 

John would never admit to the relief that flooded his body. “Okay. What about the others?”

“They ain’t releasing squat, John. Even if they had ben so inclined, and they weren’t, one of the survivors was attacked in their room in the ICU yesterday. The whole hospital is talking about it. But I guess that a priest has moved into that room pretty much full time, saying that it’s a security issue and he doesn’t feel safe.” 

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean that the patient in question was Sam. “You’re thinking the attacker was our kind of problem?” John rumbled, rubbing at his chin.

“A priest who’s also a hunter sets up shop in a dude’s hospital room? Yeah, I’m thinking something screwy’s up. But that doesn’t mean it’s your boy, John. It could’ve been any one of those kids. I guess the ICU is just crawling with Stanford kids. But those kids are all cooperating with the extra security requirements like they’re the Secret Service and the kid in that room is the president. I’m telling you, John. It’s uncanny.” 

John blew out a long breath. “Well, thanks a lot, Mac. I really appreciate it. I don’t suppose you got a chance to talk to the priest?” 

“Nah. No one’s getting into that room, or close to that room. Sorry. Why not just call him, John?” 

“I’d rather he didn’t know I was looking into it just yet.” 

He could almost see his friend’s shrug. “Your call, buddy. Hey, if I hear anything else I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks, man.” It wasn’t necessarily Sam. The fact that Jim had set up shop inside the kid’s room strongly suggested that something supernatural was involved, some evil son of a bitch, but that didn’t mean that it was Sam in that room. Evil had ben after that kid since he’d been a baby, but that didn’t mean that Sam was the target this time. He’d probably just been visiting the kid and gotten sucked up into a mess, because trouble followed Sam and sucked up everyone around him in its wake.

Either way, Jim had it covered. 

**Dean**

Maybe four years ago, give or take, Sam had broken into a storage facility at a construction site and stolen them two hard hats. Dean hadn’t been impressed. _Whaddya bringing that junk around for, bitch?_ he’d wanted to know. _You’re filling up the Impala’s trunk with crap so you can go play YMCA with your pals?_

Sammy had just given him one of his best withering looks and sighed. _How often does Dad tell us we need to go and scout out a construction site, or “source” him something stupid like dynamite or a cement mixer?_

_It’s not stupid, Sammy,_ he’d told his brother. _If he needs it, it’s not stupid._

And Sammy had just given another of his massive eye rolls. _If you were Germany, and the point were France, you’d be in Russia. No one questions a guy who looks like he belongs, Dean. Hardhat. Clipboard._

So even though the kid had been all of fifteen, not even shaving yet and sure as hell nowhere near the gigantic beanpole he’d grow into only a couple of years later, he’d put on the damn hat and carried the stupid clipboard and made noises about “inventory” whenever they saw anyone and Dean had to hand it to the kid. It was genius. They had gotten away with so much stuff, some of which had been hunt related and some of which involved blowing things up because it was fun to make something go boom. Dean strongly suspected that some of his favorite Christmas presents, tools for his Baby, had been acquired through “inventory.” 

Of course, now there were two hardhats rolling around in the trunk.

Dynamite wasn’t something that they usually carried around. It was too risky. You got pulled over with a few guns in the car – well, for the most part, you could get away with saying that you were a hunter or a collector or that You Believed In Your Second Amendment Rights God Damn It. Especially when they figured out that most of the ammo was rock salt. But you got caught with explosives? No way. That was federal time, if not a one-way ticket to Guantanamo or worse. The feds did not mess around, less so over the past year. Every once in a while, though, they did need dynamite in the course of their work. Demolitions companies stocked it. So did some construction companies, especially the kind of construction companies that built roads. 

Dean sat there in the morning and dug into both types of companies, paying close attention to companies located about an hour away from Blue Earth. Then he put on a dress shirt and a nice-ish pair of pants, not too nice, and got to work. Albert Lea Demolitions and Removal Specialists was his first target. The pile of cigarette butts by a gray metal back door suggested that this one might not be as secure as the others. When he tested it he found his suspicions were correct. He was able to get in and get out with no one the wiser. 

His next target was Thorson Road and Paving, located in Austin, Minnesota. It was only half an hour up I-90, although taking the interstate with explosives in the car made his palms sweat. He had even better luck here, because they were having a delivery right then and there. Dean stripped off his dress shirt and tie, put on the hat and pitched in offloading the product. Absolutely no one took any notice of him making off with a crate, because the regular employees thought he was with the vendor and the vendor thought he worked there. 

He got Dad’s call halfway through the drive up to Hollandale, where he was looking to rob Bob’s Demolitions. He made all of the expected noises – “Yes, sir,” but inside he sagged. This was going to be three times as much work, to do something twice as risky. Dad needed more dynamite, a lot more of it because they weren’t going to just be killing some fugly they were going to be blowing up a mausoleum. Great. Did Dad just have no freaking clue how this worked? Dean generally tried not to take the explosives in quantities large enough to trigger an audit or get some poor guy fired or worse, but he didn’t have a whole lot of time to be scrounging all over the state looking for this stuff.

Dad hadn’t ever really thought much about the effect of the hunt on the people they connected with. Sure, his tag line had always been “people are dying” and they’d both been pretty quick to throw that one at Sammy, but what about the people who weren’t dying? What about the people who were saved but had their lives irrevocably changed and not for the better? Dean could remember stealing countless cars, back before he’d been handed the Impala for his eighteenth birthday. He could remember Sammy stealing even more cars, all to make some deadline set by their father or there would be hell to pay. The cars had always been lower end, always full of someone else’s stuff, and what about that “someone else?” What about the times they’d wrecked those cars, or torched them to get rid of evidence or a body? Someone had been behind those cars, someone who could probably ill afford the complication of losing their vehicle. 

And now Dean was going to go and cost someone their job, and maybe jail time, to hunt for the mothman. Yeah, it was supernatural. Yeah, they had to kill it. But it hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t hurt anyone. And here was Dean about to go and wreck someone’s life for the sake of killing it. Yeah, he wanted to be proactive but this seemed to be pushing some kind of line. At least it did as far as Dean was concerned. He sighed. It was a difficult situation, but he didn’t know what else anyone was supposed to do about it. Those employees – well, soon-to-be-ex-employees – were surely better off in prison or unemployed than dead in some bridge collapse or gas tank explosion or what have you. No one knew how a mothman killed, but they were supernatural and had to die. If a few people had their lives a little bit disrupted in the process, well, it was probably a small price to pay, because ultimately those lives were safer as a result. A receptionist did walk in on him at Bob’s Demolitions, but he had his hat and his clipboard. The clipboard proved useful when she gave him her number.

His next two targets – Thompson Construction in New Richland and the highway department in Minnesota Lake – got looted with a lot less subtlety. He still wore the hat and carried the clipboard, but he didn’t try to finesse the job. What was the point? He was ransacking the places, trying to take as much as he could. Instead, he focused on security issues, taking out surveillance cameras and getting in and out as fast as he could. This time they would know that they had been robbed. He wasn’t going to get himself sent up for it, not if he could avoid it, but he was going to try to make sure that no one else did either. 

He drove back to Blue Earth carefully, drawing absolutely no attention to himself whatsoever or at least no more attention than a giant black muscle car from the Golden Days of Yore ever drew. He unloaded the goods into Pastor Jim’s hidden and above all dry panic room in the basement by himself. Dad was around, he saw a flutter of the white curtain that told him that Dad was around, but he didn’t come out to help. That was okay. He probably had other things to do with his time, important things.

Dad and Bobby told him about the eggs when they finished their delicious dinner of take-out fast food. “In the columbarium?” Dean skeeved, wrinkling his nose. “Where they keep the ashes?” 

“That’s what we saw,” Bobby nodded. “Can’t say it was something we exactly expected. But we figured out pretty quick that a regular bullet wasn’t going to be much help.” He chuckled, glancing at Dad. 

Dad glared at him. “Oh yeah. Laugh it up there, Singer.”

“Oh, I will.” He grinned. “Wasn’t me who thought shooting the damn thing would be a great idea, you know. But hey – we’ve got the dynamite, right? We should be able to get rid of the eggs with that.” 

“Couldn’t we just get a whole lot of mothballs?” Dean grumbled. 

“Huh,” Bobby considered. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Dad gave him a look of pure disgust. “He’s not being serious, Singer. Dean, focus. This isn’t a time for joking. People are dying.”

They weren’t, but that could always change. “Sorry, sir.” Dad glowered. 

“What we need now is a plan. No one has actually seen the mothman. It’s hard to stuff dynamite down the gullet of something that you’ve never actually seen in person.” 

Bobby nodded. “True. I mean, who’s to even say that it’s in the area? Maybe it lays its eggs far away from the nest?” 

Dean frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, maybe, but where else would it go? That cemetery was literally the only place that the mothman could go and be safe. There isn’t anyplace else that makes even a lick of sense.” 

“No, there isn’t,” Dad had to admit. “But we didn’t see anyplace. So there has to be something we missed. We’ll have to go back.” He glanced at Dean. “Think you’re up for the trip this time, son?”

Pride surged in Dean’s chest. He struggled to contain it. “Sir.” 

“We’ll head out tomorrow,” the patriarch declared. “No reason to dilly-dally.”

Dean went to bed that night with the adrenaline pumping so fast through his veins that he could barely lie down in the twin bed. Mothmen were rare. Most hunters never got to take one on at all; even Dad had been pressed to figure out a way to take one out. This made him one of the elite; this made him special. It would be one to tell the grandchildren about someday.

Not, of course, that there would ever be grandchildren. Sure, Dean loved kids. And deep down inside, the idea of having kids of his own someday, a little boy to play ball with and maybe a little girl to… to do girl things with, or to also play ball with, was a nice fantasy. It wasn’t one he ever let him think about, except maybe once in a great while late at night when he couldn’t physically stop himself.

Sure, family life looked great. He remembered it from when he’d been a little boy and it had been great, a treasured idyll. There had been pies and hugs, a warm bedroom and forehead kisses from a mother who might well have been an angel for all he knew. There had been a big, beautiful green lawn, and brightly colored flowers in the flowerbeds. Dinners had been delicious and they’d been home-cooked every night. 

But while all of that had ben happening, real evil had been out there in the world and the Winchesters had been sitting pretty at home, “fat and happy” as Dad said. Being fat and happy hadn’t stopped their world from being destroyed. It hadn’t stopped the thing that had killed their mother from slaughtering her, the terrible stench of burning flesh filling the entire house like a dinner party gone horribly awry. Now they knew. 

And since they knew, since they knew and they were able-bodied, they had a responsibility to do something about it. They had to fight. They didn’t just have to fight; they had to dedicate their lives to the fight, so that other people didn’t have to suffer what they’d suffered. It sucked sometimes. It was a sacrifice; no one pretended it wasn’t. Sure Dean would have loved to stay in school, become a mechanic, join the wrestling team, marry Robin back in Hurleyville, have a few kids. Maybe coach a team when he got older. Maybe he’d have learned to golf. That was something normal people, family guys, did, right? But it wasn’t an option. Someone had to go out and fight the forces of evil and it might as well be the people who had already lost everything, who had nothing left. Dad had taught him that. 

The fire had taken everything from them; all they could do was to spend their lives trying to save others from the same fate. It would be selfish to try to claw something back now, unforgivably selfish. Maybe they could have little moments here and there – brief distractions, a night with a girl or a couple of hours staring at the stars, a ride out to an Ozzy show because they were between jobs and they could freaking do that sometimes – but trying for anything more would be like spitting on their mother’s grave. Why Sammy couldn’t get that through his Cro-Magnon skull of his eluded Dean completely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets his lazy butt out of bed. John finds his chill. Dean keeps you warm on a cold November night.

**Sam**

Sam woke to pain. 

This wasn’t entirely unexpected, beyond the fact that he hadn’t expected to be waking up at all. When the lights went out he’d believed he was done, and he’d been in enough pain that he didn’t mind being done. Maybe he hadn’t accomplished everything he’d set out to do when he’d left his father’s rule, but he’d gotten away. He’d found friends and he’d found freedom and he’d made himself a home, and that was enough. 

He knew where he was, at least peripherally. Hospitals had a certain smell all their own. Even if the smell hadn’t tipped him off, the number of things taped to or stuck into him would have been a giant clue. Part of him panicked. Rule number two was that hospitals were to be avoided at all costs. They left a paper trail that could be followed. They cost money that the Winchesters pretty much never had, because throwing your life away for strangers didn’t come with health or dental. They made you soft, too – drugged you up, made you think that pain was something to be avoided and that maybe you should think about doing something with your life that didn’t involve broken bones and massive blood loss. They tried to convince you that you were worth something. 

He forced his eyes open. He hadn’t needed a hospital to decide that he was worth something – maybe not much, and maybe not today, but he could be someday, maybe. Only if he got out of the stupid hospital.

God, everything hurt. Everything hurt, but some things hurt more than others and his chest and abdomen hurt more than everything. Okay. What did that mean? He remembered falling. He’d probably fallen from some height. Well, that sucked. _Focus, Sam._

Okay. He’d fallen, but he’d twisted maybe? Sure, that made sense. He remembered reading that if you could fall onto your side you had the best chance of surviving. His head felt like it was floating away. Someone was drugging him, probably for pain. If this was what he felt like on high-grade painkillers, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what he would feel like off of them.

A low groan escaped his lips. He pressed them tighter together, but not before someone heard. Footsteps echoed across the linoleum. “Sam?” came Pastor Jim’s voice. “Sam, are you awake?” 

He blinked at his friend and mentor. “How long?” Ugh. His voice sounded awful, like tearing paper.

“Three or four days, I think. It’s hard to keep track. They all kind of run together here,” the priest told him, running a gentle hand over his cheek. He hadn’t shaved in days. “I’m not going to lie, Sam. We didn’t think you were going to make it.” 

A memory flashed behind his eyes, sudden and violent. Piercing claws, tearing at his gullet. “Yeah,” he grimaced. “Me neither.” 

He swallowed reflexively and fumbled around for a button that would help raise the top half of the bed. Hospital beds were supposed to have those, right? He knew he shouldn’t sit up on his own, even moving around enough to grope for the bed adjustor was increasing his pain factory by a factor of ten, but if he was going to drink anything he needed to sit up. His fingers found the button and pushed it.

Jim startled. “Should you be sitting up so soon, son?” 

“Can’t drink water lying down, sir,” he rasped with a quirk of his lips.

“Oh. Sorry.” Jim leaned over to a table out of Sam’s line of vision and poured something. Within a few seconds, something plastic was pushing at his lips and he took a small sip. 

Sam took a moment for bitterness, just a tiny one. He figured he’d been mauled, he was allowed. If Dean had been here, Dean would have known he was thirsty without him having to ask. He’d have just known, some kind of visual cue or maybe the twitch of his throat or just some kind of older-sibling instinct that, as someone who had never had to care for someone else beyond a few hangovers and nursing them through injuries, Sam couldn’t fully grasp. Sam loved Pastor Jim, but it shouldn’t be him here, looking at Sam all stretched out in the hospital bed. It shouldn’t be the priest gazing down at him with fear and anxiety and who knew what else. It should be his brother, damn it.

Then Sam took the bitterness, found the place where he put all of those kinds of thoughts and emotions, and he locked it down. He didn’t have time for it and it wasn’t productive. Dean wasn’t coming, Dean was lost to him. Dean no longer cared, because Sam had lost Dean when Sam left. Sam chose this. Sam needed to accept the consequences of that choice. At least he had Pastor Jim. “Thank you, sir,” he made himself smile. “Did everyone else get out okay?” 

Jim pulled up a chair. “Um. There was one girl who died at the scene.”

Sam closed his eyes and saw Vicki fall, eyes fixed and glassy, to the ground. “I, uh, I remember that. Has her family been notified?” 

“Yes. I spoke with them yesterday, for a moment. They wanted to see you but you weren’t awake yet.” Jim offered a small smile, looking aside. “There was a young man who broke his leg, Sutter maybe? And a young woman…” 

Sam gripped the sheets. “Ginny,” he whispered. 

“She’s… she’s not well. She’ll live, but she didn’t cope well with her experiences.” Jim shifted back subtly, so his eyes were hidden by long shadows. “I don’t think she’ll be coming back to school for a while.” 

“Ginny,” Sam whispered again, tears springing to his eyes. 

The priest put a hand on his. “I know you and she were… close.” He cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry, Sam.” 

He felt his cheeks warm up. “Does Brady know?” 

“Tyson? Yes. He’s been right outside your door pretty much the whole time; I swear he’s paced a hole right into the linoleum. Reminds me a little bit of –“ He remembered himself and the tiny smile that had sprung to his face fell away. “Anyway, he’s been pretty anxious to see you.” 

Sam nodded. “What about any of the others?” he asked. Did he want to see Brady? Of course he wanted to see Brady. Did he want Brady to see him so helpless he couldn’t even sit up on his own, with a catheter shoved up his… No. “Was anyone else hurt?” 

His mentor smiled gently and patted his hand. “No, Sam. You killed all of the owl men. You saved everyone. You’re a hero.”

He glanced away. He didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like shit, and his head felt like a balloon. “What about classes?” 

“That nice RA of yours, Meli, already smoothed things over with your professors. It’s all going to be okay.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve already spoken to the kids that were there about not sharing what really happened. They’re on board, Sam.”

He froze and nodded, letting his head hang. He’d be the freak once again, but that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. They were alive. That was the important thing. He couldn’t even blame it on anyone else this time. Dad was someplace else, somewhere far away. “My guns?” he sighed. 

“Right here, kiddo.” He patted his hips. “There’ve been some security concerns.” Sam must have looked at him funny because he hastened to explain. “Hunters, son. Meli got attacked. But we took care of it, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

Sam looked around the room, trying to focus his eyes a little bit better. “Did she put up… “

“She was worried about you, Sam.” He relaxed slightly. “She seems like a nice girl.” 

Sam got what the priest was insinuating even through the haze of the drugs. “She’s a senior, sir. Going to Hopkins, probably, in the fall. Maybe Harvard, who knows.” He sipped at his water again, welcoming the cooling sensation against the agony in his throat. “She’s been helping me. With the whole… Taurus thing.” 

“She doesn’t approve of that much.” Jim stood. “We should probably let someone medical know that you’re awake. I know they’ll be surprised and that doctor of yours will owe me twenty bucks. Oh – your father seems to be having some computer trouble.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. About that.” He closed his eyes. “You know what? Just… I don’t know. Just get someone to bring me my laptop, I’ll take care of it from here.”

Jim rang the call button. “Nah. Let him stew. It’s not like he knows what to do with the stupid thing anyway. Let’s just focus on getting you better, Sam.” 

The doctor, a tired-looking woman by the name of Eppley, was called. She stopped in the doorway and gaped at Sam, putting him in mind of a fish. He’d have laughed about that if he had the energy. “You,” she declared with finality, “should not be awake.”

“I’d rather not be,” he told her honestly. “It kind of hurts.”

“It should hurt.” She crossed the room in a few quick steps. “Your insides were mangled, Sam. You shouldn’t be awake. Not now, maybe not ever.”

He offered her a weak smile. “I’ve always had a quick recovery time.” 

She snorted. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.” She looked up at Jim. “Your side wins this one, Father.”

Jim grinned. “So we’ll be seeing you in chapel on Sunday?”

“Could be. Could be.” She listened to Sam’s breathing and heart. “This isn’t physically possible. I want scans.”

Sam found himself being wheeled out of his room, still attached to a pile of monitors and tubes, and taken for a series of tests. He was prodded, poked, examined, scanned, x-rayed and once he thought he might have gone through something that resembled a large tricorder. No one answered any questions, they just moved him and touched him and stabbed and groped and did what they needed to do when they needed to do it. When he objected, they looked at each other and declared that “The patient is becoming combative; let’s give him some Propofol.” 

Sam disliked hospitals intensely. 

When they’d finished treating his body like a test dummy he was returned to his room, where he drooled at the ceiling for a while until the sedatives wore off. The nurses took the opportunity, seeing him pliant, to wash him. He didn’t like that much either, but he couldn’t not allow it and he had to admit that he smelled better. Eventually he dozed off and the sedatives processed themselves out of his system. 

When he woke up Meli was there with Jim, eyes bright. “Sam!” she greeted, hugging him carefully. It still hurt. “I am so glad to see you awake!” 

He growled. “Do not,” he said slowly and carefully, so that there was no doubt as to his meaning no matter how much he slurred his words, “let them dope me up like this.”

His RA looked at his mentor. “’Dope you up?’” the latter demanded. “Sam, you’ve got to be in a world of hurt. And you tried to punch a technician who was trying to position you for –“ 

“My body,” he emphasized. “No one else’s.” And with that he sank back into oblivion. 

The next time he woke up he hurt more, if that was even possible, but his head was somewhat clearer. Meli explained to him that medical staff was confused by his recovery time. Apparently his organs, many of which had been seriously damaged in the attack, were healing at a rate that they deemed “not medically possible.” They wanted to write a paper on his recovery, she told him, which both Sam and Jim vetoed about as firmly as words would allow. 

He had no idea why he should be recovering so quickly. If he was being honest he didn’t particularly feel like he was recovering all that fast. Everything hurt, breathing hurt, he still had to be on a stupid oxygen thing and everything. Still, he found he was able to stay awake for longer periods and fight off the drugs for longer. He didn’t like how the drugs made him feel. 

After another three days he was moved to a regular care floor, and his condition upgraded to serious. That gave him a bathroom and allowed him to have the catheter removed, an unpleasant but absolutely necessary process. He also found himself allowed to receive more visitors, and for longer. That meant Brady. 

Brady was an absolute godsend. Brady brought Sam’s laptop to him so that he could fix his father’s computer. Brady brought Sam’s school books to him, so he could keep up with as much of his work as possible under the circumstances – Harris emailed him notes from some classes, other classmates from others, but without the books Sam would have lost his mind from boredom staring at the piss-yellow walls of his room for hours on end. Brady helped Sam slip into a second hospital johnny, covering his backside, and walk up and down the halls to try to keep his muscles from forgetting how to work as they stitched themselves back together. 

And God, Sam wanted more. Every time that Sam leaned on Brady’s arm and let his bare skin touch Brady’s he wanted to lean in and touch his lips to the blond’s, which of course couldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen because Brady was in the closet, and you just didn’t out someone like that. It couldn’t happen because Brady might not even be that tactile in public even if he were able to be open about his affections. It couldn’t happen because Brady probably didn’t want him as anything but a friends-with-benefits kind of thing anyway, and you didn’t just go around planting one on your best buddy. It couldn’t happen because Sam doubted that all of the medications and whatever were doing great things for his breath, and no one wanted to kiss someone whose breath was best described as a side effect. 

It couldn’t happen because Sam had been picked up and dropped several stories by a creature out of myth, and while his ribs were healing and his lungs were healing and his liver was healing – he’d lacerated his liver, who did that? – his stamina was not up to more than the slightest brushes of lips. Maybe not even that. He couldn’t have Brady’s arms around him the way he wanted because it would set his recovery back – how screwed up was that? 

They talked a little bit, about the attack. “You saved us, Sam,” Brady told him. “I mean, you saved us.” 

Sam didn’t shrug, because he couldn’t. Not yet, not really. “I did what anyone would have done, Brady. I’m just the one that happened to have guns on hand.” He didn’t mention that he happened to have guns that happened to be loaded for cryptids, because he didn’t know if Pastor Jim had had that particular talk with Brady yet. If he hadn’t already written Sam off as a freak there was no reason to encourage him to do so. 

“Yeah, but you were the one who did it. And I’m not so sure that any of us would have. I mean, most of us were running around like chickens with our heads cut off but you – you were calm. Cool. Those things –“ He shuddered. “You weren’t even scared, man.” 

“Oh, no.” He huffed out a laugh, which hurt. “I was terrified. Don’t think for a minute that I wasn’t.” 

“Then why weren’t you just as freaked out as the rest of us?” 

Sam sighed. “I don’t know,” he lied. “I guess I just needed to protect you all, you know? I mean, I knew that I had the guns. It didn’t matter that they were… giant, fugly, man-owl things. They were hurting all of you, and I had something that might be able to stop them. So… yeah. It’s not like I stopped to analyze my reaction.”

He chuckled a bit. “You shot first and asked questions later.” 

“Well, less asking questions and more bleeding. But yeah.”

“Damn, Winchester. You’re pretty impressive.” 

The pain lessened slowly. He didn’t know if it really hurt any less or if he was just getting more used to it, but he was legally an adult and able to refuse the hard-core painkillers. Everyone told him that was a bad idea, but he insisted. He knew that Jim and Meli were hiding something from him, something that had happened while he was unconscious. It had something to do with why Jim sat watch over him the whole time, even now that he was awake. It had something to do with the fact that he sat watch with Sam’s guns right under the lapels of his jacket and had Meli watch over him when he couldn’t do it. It was a ridiculous idea, Meli couldn’t shoot to save her life, but they both insisted. Sam loved and trusted both of them, but he’d spent enough of his life being lied to. He didn’t need to continue that trend now that he was on his own, and if he was going to know the truth he needed to keep his head clear. Sam would figure it out. In the meantime, he convalesced.

**John**

The knowledge that there had been something supernatural involved with the case out in Palo Alto – and something weird at that, because six owlmen didn’t come together out of fellow feeling and good will toward one another – was absolutely weird. 

Part of John longed to get in the truck and get to driving. The supernatural had been after Sam since he’d been all of six months old. It might have been coincidence that something staggeringly weird reared its ugly head now, while he just happened to be in Palo Alto. In John’s experience, coincidence was a myth. Still, just because it was supernatural didn’t mean that it was related to Mary’s death. If he’d learned anything over the past two decades he’d learned that much. Evil came in all kinds of shapes and flavors and it could have its own motivations and needs. It might be working for the thing that had killed Mary, it might be working against the thing that had killed Mary, it could be motivated by something completely different and just be drawn to Sammy like a moth to a flame. He didn’t know. He wanted to know, and he felt like he needed to know. He needed to know for Sammy, to make sure that Sammy was safe (in whatever way that meant, and he had to acknowledge that was a terrible way to think about his own son). He needed to know for Mary, in case this weird out-of-character action was a sign that whatever had killed Mary was coming back online again. 

At the same time, he had a job in front of him. He had a job in front of him that was a lot more important, in the short term, than anything going on in California. After all, there were no other demon signs out that way and whatever weird force of nature (or un-nature) had drawn the owlmen together they were distinctly dead now. Sam had forfeited any claim to protection by leaving and any other civilians in the area had been saved by whatever hunters had tracked down the damn owl-men and killed them. The mothman, now, he was an immediate problem, carrying with him the potential death of scores if he wasn’t taken out. It sucked, but sometimes the job meant prioritizing things. Saving lives always had to come first. So he knuckled down and got to work. 

After Dean had gotten back to the rectory with the necessary dynamite they sat down to make charges that would be sufficient to take out one of the bastards. It wasn’t easy; coming up with a bomb that would be strong enough to take out a critter that had an exoskeleton of unknown strength was harder than it should have been. Dean, though, proved to be exceptionally talented at building bombs, which should have disturbed John more than it did. Oh well; he’d accepted long ago that he wasn’t going to win father of the year. 

They went out to the cemetery the next night to try to catch up with the mothman. John hid himself over near some trees that had some telltale silks near them, while Bobby kept a watch near the entrance and Dean staked out a mostly-desolate area near the back of the boneyard. The night was cold and clear, that kind of miserable fall night where you thought your toes might fall right off and John settled in to wait it out. 

Back when the boys were younger he’d looked forward to nights like this. They were good opportunities to teach Sam and Dean how to survive in any weather, under any conditions. Oh, he’d never been far away. He would never have let things go too far, but the boys had to learn how to survive. It wasn’t like they were always going to have space heaters on a hunt. Matches got wet. Sometimes it wasn’t practical to have a fire – someone might be looking for you, or maybe conditions were too dry. You didn’t want to start a wildfire after all. Whatever happened, he knew that Dean at least was able to get through the whole night out here without risking life or limb despite the bitter cold. And Sam was capable of doing the same, wherever he was. Whether or not he would choose to do so was a different matter, but at least he’d gone forth into his make-believe normal with the right equipment. 

Dean had done exactly what he’d been expected to do every time. He’d followed every cue. He’d achieved every objective, even when the objective hadn’t been clearly stated or laid out for him. Sam, on the other hand, had wiggled his way around the objectives at every turn. If John had wanted him to simply “get through the night” Sam would just high-tail it to civilization, no matter how far out there John had left them. If the parameters were to stay put and survive he’d build a fucking palace – visible as all hell, but not something John had specifically forbidden – just to piss his father off. Sometimes he’d just take off and get found days or, rarely, weeks later, someplace warmer and milder, and John never had figured out how Sam would manage to escape from right under his father’s or brother’s watchful eye on those kinds of exercises.

Sometimes he wondered what it might have been like to camp properly with his boys, with tents and hikes and maybe… what did normal people do when camping, anyway? He had vague memories of camping with his own father back before Henry had split, but they had been dimmed by time and the pain of his father’s abandonment and of course the all-consuming need for revenge. He remembered talking with Mary about taking Dean camping, but she’d been simply adamant that her little boy wasn’t having any part of that thank you very much. He was staying home with her and eating pie and if John wanted to go sit in the woods to get eaten by some god-awful thing then he could go right on ahead.

Back then he’d thought she was being ridiculous and possibly had an unhealthy fixation on bears. Now he found himself hiding amongst the tombstones with a backpack full of dynamite and wondered if maybe his beautiful wife hadn’t been onto something. Bears, after all, were the least of his worries.

They didn’t find anything that first night. Nothing made a sound, not even a passing car or nocturnal critter, and the men returned to the rectory with chilled limbs and foul moods. Not that Singer was ever in a good mood; the man had been born hung over and cussing. They didn’t come up with anything the next night either, or the next. The only good thing to come out of all of that screwing around was that Dean finally heard from Taurus. The lily-livered sack of skin didn’t have much to say for himself, just told Dean to boot up Dad’s computer while hooked into Jim’s network and he’d take care of the rest. It took him all of ten minutes and the guy didn’t stick around to chat or apologize after, he must have been raised in a damn barn but at least John had a functioning laptop of his own again.

Finally, over dinner one night, Dean cleared his throat. “I know we’ve been sitting outside and waiting for that thing, the mothman, to come to us, sir,” he began. 

“That’s it’s breeding ground, son,” John pointed out. “It’s got to come back eventually. If nothing else it will want to check on its eggs. Every creature under the sun wants to keep its young safe, monitor them.” 

Singer just turned and looked at John with such incredulity that there was no way that John could mistake his meaning. “Every creature, huh Johnny?” he asked, shaking his head. “Pretty sure that’s not the case.” 

“You got something you want to say to me, Singer?” John asked in a perfectly calm and reasonable tone. It sounded perfectly calm and reasonable to him, anyway. 

“Just it seems to me that you’re making an awful lot of assumptions without a lot of basis for ‘em, that’s all.” Singer poked at his food, a sneer playing across his beard. “I mean, turtles just plop their eggs down in the sand and run off again.” 

“This ain’t a turtle, Singer. It’s a mothman,” he growled. He could see Dean’s Adam’s apple working furiously as he looked from John to Bobby and back again, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Yeah. Yeah it is,” the junkman retorted. “And moths deposit their eggs and leave ‘em there. Fact is you don’t know that it’s still near the nursery site. Could be, could not be. Could be that it saw us go into that columbarium and got scared off. You don’t know, but you’re running this thing like you’re a damn expert on something you ain’t never seen.” 

“You want out of this party you know where the door is,” John pointed out. 

“Guys?” Dean squeaked. “Hey. Guys? Mothman hunt going on?” Both Bobby and John turned narrowed eyes at the younger man. “Sorry – I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have an idea.” 

“What’s your idea, son?” Singer demanded gently, leaning forward and putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Anything’s got to be better than sitting here and spinning our wheels.” John snarled at him, but he was ignored. 

“Well.” Dean tugged on his ear. “I mean, we don’t know for sure that the mothman will or won’t come back to the place where he deposited his eggs. Would it be she? She deposited her eggs?” He looked up for a second and John rolled his eyes. Whether or not Dean had a good idea, he wasn’t going to be able to use it if he didn’t get to the damn point. 

“Get on with it, Dean,” he ordered. 

“Right. Sorry. It’s just – well, if we go and rig those eggs to blow, the mothman should come running. And if not, then we’ve still taken out the eggs and that litter won’t hatch either way. We can increase our chances of getting this thing to look our way by lighting a nice big fire in front of the place where they store folks’ ashes – I mean, moths like flame, right? The monster will be drawn in and we’ll all be able to stay warmer. What do you say?”

John opened his mouth to object, because the idea was absurd. Of course the monster wasn’t going to act like a giant moth and come running just because they’d lit a giant fire, lighting a giant fire wasn’t going to do anything other than attract attention that they didn’t need right now. He found himself closing it again. Blowing up the eggs might be the most that they could salvage from this mess if they couldn’t find the damn mothman, and who knew? Maybe Singer was right. It wasn’t like he was an expert on mothmen. It wasn’t like there were any experts on mothmen. “I suppose that we can give it a shot,” he resigned himself, scratching at his own head. “But I’m not taking the fall for anyone who gets nailed for arson.”

Dean rolled his eyes and grinned, a little more of the cocky swagger coming back than he’d shown since Sammy left. “Come on. It’s a building full of ashes. No one’s going to care if it burns.” 

John fixed him with a glower, even though his heart wasn’t really in it. “This is a serious hunt, Dean. People are dying.” Well, they had the potential to die, anyway. People always died when a mothman was sighted. They had to get ahead of this thing and take it out before its curse struck again. 

He straightened up. “Yes, sir.” 

Bobby’s lip curled and he turned his head away. It was a good thing that he’d gotten Sammy away from Singer back in the day; there was no telling what damage would have been done if the two of them had ben allowed to stay in contact. God, if Sammy had turned out this willful on his own he’d have been just unholy with more exposure to Singer.

They started work the next day, bringing wood out to the cemetery and carefully stashing it near the columbarium. They had to be very circumspect about their activities; too much in any one spot and it would attract the attention of the groundskeepers. Scattering it too far would leave them too little time to get in and get out, resulting in disaster and capture. Fortunately for them the groundskeepers had been engaged in trimming back some of the brush and mess that had taken up residence around the cemetery over the summer and early fall, providing them not only with cover but with additional kindling. 

By the time night fell John’s stomach was practically wrapped around his spine, but this wasn’t the time for getting weak and thinking about himself. He could worry about eating and sleeping when the people of southern Minnesota were free from this aerial menace. He could hear Dean’s stomach growling from across the clearing and he shook his head. How had the boy’s stomach gotten to be so insistent? It wasn’t Dean’s fault that he couldn’t control the infernal racket – he’d never met anyone whose will could overpower their internal organs in such a way – but he couldn’t understand yet how Dean had managed to grow such an insistent, demanding stomach. It wasn’t like the boy had been overfed as a child. Clearly Dean needed some more training. He was a decent hunter, he could do the basics as fine as anyone in the business, but that mewling gut of his was going to get both of them into trouble one of these days. 

He let one of the back parts of his mind, the parts that processed longer term problems like patterns that showed up over time and ways to address Sammy’s attitude problem and how they were going to stay under the radar with this warrant hanging over his head, go to work on how he could train his son’s stomach to stay silent. The rest of his brain stayed focused on the job at hand. 

They broke into the columbarium again and set up their charges around the eggs. Dean cursed as he tried to hack into the hard coating, chipping away at the gem-like shell. “Damn sir. Think this is going to be enough dynamite?”

“It’ll have to be, boy. It’s all you got.” Not that the boy could have known how much to get, and not that the boy could have gotten much more, but there was always room for improvement. More dynamite would probably always be a welcome improvement, he reflected as he looked at the locked shelving units. If he came to the cemetery to visit Mary’s ashes and found that some yahoo had blown up her resting spot he’d be livid. He’d be more than livid; he’d hunt them down and look to take them out as soon as the laws of physics would permit. 

And you heard all the time about people busting up cemeteries and vandalizing graves. Half of the time John knew what it was; hunters laying the dead to rest in ways that the living could never understand. How many more were just like this – some kind of monster took up residence in a cemetery, with the remains of the decent departed becoming collateral damage? He thought back to the ghoul that had terrorized Windom. This would not be a case like that. This would be cleaner – he had no idea what the hell a mothman ate and this was probably not going to be a time to find out, but there were no signs that he was snacking on people living or dead. Small favors, John supposed. 

Once the explosives were set up in such a way to cause maximum destruction the trio retreated to the crisp outside and built the structure for their bonfire. Once it was in place, John turned to Dean. “Well, this was your idea,” he said to his son. “You want to start things off?”

Dean flushed with pride. “Yes sir,” he grinned. He fished a matchbook out of the pocket of his jacket, probably from a bar or some such place (not like he hadn’t grown up in roadhouses and roadside dives) and struck one against the back. “Burn baby burn.” 

**Dean**

Dean looked at the firewood, stacked literally as high as the columbarium’s roof. This might have been overkill. They hadn’t used this much wood when they’d torched Howie Miller, and after what had gotten him they’d made sure that they torched him real good. Still, there were few things in life that Dean enjoyed as much as he enjoyed a good bonfire, especially on a night like tonight. “Burn baby burn,” he said, flicking the match into the dry tinder at the center of the giant pyramid of soon to be fiery burning doom. The tinder caught immediately, but of course Dean knew that it would. Say what you wanted about Dean, his fires never failed to light. He stood back and watched the little flame catch and build. 

“You sure this’ll work?” his father grumbled as the crackling grew in volume. “No, sir,” he admitted, squatting down. “But I figure it’s worth a shot.”

It wasn’t like what they had been doing was working in the first place, he thought to himself as he blew on the fire, trying to get it more air. The blasphemous thought danced around inside his skull, an unwelcome guest that stood a good two or three inches taller than he did and drank half-caf lattes like he was too good for real coffee. It was true, though. Dad’s plan hadn’t been working, and damn it Dean just wanted to get back to the rectory and scrounge for something to eat. They hadn’t had breakfast that morning. Dad had wanted to get an early start on finding materials and scouting out locations. Maybe Bobby had managed to hit up a drive through or something but Dad had kept Dean right by his side and it had been nothing but black coffee for them. “Don’t want to weigh us down,” he’d said, and Dean was pretty sure that his stomach was literally climbing his vertebrae in an attempt to go hunting and gathering or something. It wasn’t just his usual metabolism, and Dean would be the first to tell anyone that it took a lot of fuel to keep the Dean machine running. He hadn’t had a chance to stop, to just rest and recover, since the whole mess with the pukwudgie and its poison. He was still, technically, in recovery. His reserves were tapped out from fighting off the toxins; he had nothing left. 

But it was stupid to think of himself, stupid and wrong and selfish. He needed to focus on the case, not his belly. Dad needed him to focus on the case. Maybe if Sam had stuck around he could get away with sneaking out and getting snacks. He could have gotten snacks for all three of them. But no, Sam had gone away and now the workload fell solidly on Dean and on John. There wasn’t time to fuck off for snacks. There was just time to pour everything you had into the task at hand and hope you survived long enough to grab something on the way home. He just needed to be better, better at planning and better at packing. He should have had snacks ready by the door, some kind of trail mix or at least peanut M&Ms by the door or something. He was pretty sure that Sam had left a box of granola bars in Baby. 

What was Sam doing right now? 

Dean held his hands out to the flames and regretted, not for the first time, that he hadn’t invested in a decent pair of gloves. For crying out loud, his fingerprints had to be all over hundreds of crime scenes by now. But seriously – what was Sam up to? Dad didn’t think he’d been out on that disaster of a camping trip, and Dean was inclined to agree with him. Sam hated those survival exercises their father took them on all the time; he’d found a way to sneak out from under their noses and take off literally every single time. Was he off with a girl? He hoped that at the very least, if Sam was going to cut himself off from his family and every connection he’d ever had, he was at least getting laid out of the deal. Was he learning to hang back and let loose a little, enjoy life in college? Smoke some weed, drink beer because beer pong was fun and not because the water was running brown out of the faucet and you needed something to brush your teeth with?

“Look alive, Dean,” his father prodded. “If that thing comes he’s not going to wait for you to finish wool-gathering.” 

Dean felt his cheeks grow hot. Yeah, he shouldn’t even be thinking about Sammy right now. Sammy, wherever he was and whatever he might be doing, was not where he should be – which was right here, at Dean’s side, shivering in the cold and enjoying the bonfire’s warmth, waiting for a goddamn monster out of legend to show its ugly face so that someone could cram a boatload of dynamite down its maw and blow it to kingdom come. 

Funny. When Dean thought of it like that he couldn’t really be surprised that Sammy had ditched. Sometimes he wondered if he should have maybe made a different choice himself, back when Sonny had told him “I’ll fight for you to stay.” Maybe he’d have his own auto body shop by now.

But where would that leave Dad?

The flames crawled higher and higher. For a moment Dean thought that maybe someone would call the police. After all, this mountain of flame had to be visible from somewhere; it was a freaking watchtower. At the same time, he could remember times when Dad hadn’t been around, when he’d gone out with some of the other local kids in this small town or that “city” somewhere between this hunt and that horror show. Kids went out. They drank, and they lit fires to stay warm while they drank. Maybe the fires wouldn’t get this big, but it wasn’t like there was anyone to be hurt by it in a cemetery. Maybe the neighbors were just shaking their heads and drawing the curtains, muttering about “those darn kids” and waiting to hear sirens when some fool caught themselves on fire because they zigged when they should have zagged. 

Fire, of course, has several advantages. It has several drawbacks, too, one of which is that fire is loud and becomes progressively louder as it gets larger. Dean hadn’t thought about that in the context of the hunt, and if it had occurred to either Bobby or Dad he figured that they would have said something. In horror movies, after all, a moth-human hybrid would usually shriek as it attacked, its cry ricocheting off the local conveniently-placed cliff face to create a Doppler-effect sound pattern that would chill small children on a Saturday afternoon and have them burying their faces in their big brothers’ shoulders.

In reality, the mothman did not scream or shriek or grunt or yell obscenities or even politely say “excuse me, do you mind not having a fire so close to my clutch of babies, thanks ever so kindly?” The only warning that Dean had was the faintest sound of wings flapping, moving the air just a tiny bit, and then Bobby was yelling. 

Dean jumped into action. The mothman was huge, over seven feet if Dean was any judge, and it was white. It wasn’t white the way that most pundits talked about skin color, it was white. It was marble-statue white, it was pure clean sheets at the nicest motels white. It reflected the light of the fire and spat it back in blinding fluorescence, that was how white it was. And its eyes – beady, grotesque – they were red, and seated on the front of its face like some kind of bug. It wasn’t hard to see the facets in those eyes, gem-like in their oddity and completely without pupils. Sometimes they came across a monster in their travels that had once been human. At times like that Dean felt sorry for the poor bastard, because nine times out of then the guy hadn’t asked for what it had coming to it. This – this thing, this abomination , it had never been human. It was the most grotesque thing that Dean had ever encountered.

The mothman knocked Bobby to the ground and he lay there, bleeding. He did not rise. Dean wanted to go to him, to check on the lore master and figure out if he was going to be okay, but there wasn’t time for that right now. The mothman wheeled around in mid-air, charging at Dad. If they managed to take out the monstrosity Dean could take care of Bobby. If not, Bobby was better off not knowing. Dad grunted as claws tore into his good arm.

Dean grabbed his shotgun and fired at the albescent bug’s face while Dad ducked. He knew it probably wouldn’t do much, but hopefully it would distract the monster from trying to take a chunk out of Dad or Bobby for the time being. The shotgun’s report echoed off the stones, piercing the night and bringing those terrible ruby eyes onto Dean. Well, better Dean than Bobby or Dad, right? He was expendable; they had the knowledge. “Yeah, that’s right, you winged bastard,” Dean yelled at the thing. “Come and get it.” 

The mothman hissed, barely audible over the fire, and flapped its wings. For a moment Dean thought that it might be running off, annoyed beyond reason by Dean’s frankly mild taunt, but no. It turned once it had achieved sufficient height and dove, claws extended, aiming for Dean.

Shit. This was not good. Dean stood his ground. He was not going to be taken out by some monster from a bad Saturday morning B movie. He flipped his shotgun around and held it loosely in his grip, practically vibrating with anticipation. This was it, this was everything. The moth sped toward him. As soon as it was close enough, Dean wound up and slammed it in the face with the butt of his shotgun.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Stabbing pain, maybe, or shredding pain to be more precise. Maybe he figured that there would be biting involved; most monsters liked to bite for some reason. He didn’t expect the monster to feel the impact, to be knocked to the ground and stunned by the blow. “Dean, move!” Dad yelled as the mothman crashed to the ground. “Don’t just stand there congratulating yourself!” 

Dean didn’t need to be told twice. To be honest he didn’t need to be told once; he was on the beast before the words even finished leaving John Winchester’s mouth, straddling its chest and bringing his fist into its jaw again and again. Dean knew that his punch packed a wallop; Sam had told him that any number of times, if nothing else. He channeled all of his rage into every swing and somehow the blows were landing. The mothman bucked under him. It was like riding a statue, or maybe a really bad mechanical bull, but Dean held on. Hands like metal clenched around his wrists, restraining him, so Dean reared his head back and butted it between the eyes. The monster released his hands, stunned again, and Dean went back to punching. 

Truth be told he wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore, just losing himself in the rhythm and the rage as he rained blows down on the monster’s face, but that was okay. Dad came up and crammed the monster’s sagging jaw full of dynamite, lit the fuse and tackled Dean to drag him off. The ground shook with the explosion. A bit of exoskeleton cut across Dean’s cheek, but he only noticed because of the blood. The euphoria of the win made sure he felt no pain at all. They’d done it. They’d killed a mothman. It had taken three of them and a hell of a lot of dynamite, but they’d killed the sucker. What was more, they’d survived to tell the tale, so they’d be able to pass on that knowledge. If anyone ever encountered a mothman again, they could ask someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew Bobby, and he would tell them: John Winchester and his son Dean killed one, and here’s how they did it. 

“Quit your gloating there, Holyfield,” Dad directed. “We’ve still got a ton of clean-up to do, plus there’s Bobby to worry about.” 

Crap. Bobby, who had been hurt by the thing. “How are you, sir?” he asked quickly. “I could’ve sworn that the thing got you pretty good.” 

“Well I’m fine, thanks for askin’,” John drawled. “I’m going to need some stitches when we get back to Jim’s place, so don’t go thinking about heading out to go whoring around in celebration. Come on. Get those bits onto the pyre and then go see about Bobby.” Dad eased his jacket off himself as he spoke and wrapped it around his arm as a makeshift bandage; the thing would probably be a total loss, but Dean would see if he could get the blood out of it anyway. There was no harm in trying; it would at least save them a little bit of money, right? 

He obediently collected as many pieces of his deceased opponent as he could, tossing them into the bonfire as he did so. Once that task was complete he turned his attention to Bobby, who still lay on the ground where he’d landed. It looked like he’d hit his head, and hard. A quick check showed that his pupils were fixed and unresponsive, but he was breathing right and his pulse was steady; He’d probably be fine once he got through the initial misery. 

The next step almost seemed anticlimactic. Dad got back into the truck. Dean loaded Bobby into the truck too. Then he went and set the columbarium off. They’d been careful; they’d focused the dynamite on the eggs instead of on the building, but still – that was a lot of dynamite. The explosion could probably have been heard three towns away; it certainly had Dean’s ears ringing worse than the last Ozzy show he’d been at.

He didn’t stick around to watch the coating of bone and ash fall over the cemetery. He might not be able to hear much right now but he knew that someone would have dialed 9-1-1 after hearing that boom. He kept the lights off as they took a back route out of the cemetery and brought them through an automatic car wash on the way back to Pastor Jim’s, just in case. Once there, he got Bobby up into his room and cleaned himself up before sitting down to sew Dad’s arm. 

Stitching Dad up had never been a favorite activity. It wasn’t something Dean was good at, and he knew it. It wasn’t so much that he was bad at it; Dad wouldn’t have tolerated anything less than competence at… well, anything, really. But out of the three of them, Dean was the least skilled at this particular task. Dad had been a field medic in Vietnam and he could (and had) stitched people up when he was too drunk to stand. Sammy didn’t have Dad’s particular experience – although maybe hunting for close to twenty years counted, at that – but he had the uniquely fussy nature bordering on obsessive that demanded that he make perfect, even, tiny stitches every time. Most of his stitches didn’t even scar. 

Then there was Dean. His stitches were huge, clumsy, ugly things. They stood out. They always left a mark. You could tell that someone had been patched up by Dean Winchester from a mile away. At the same time, big ugly clumsy stitches were still stiches, and they were better than no stitches at all. Dean sewed his father’s arm back together and the old man didn’t even grunt. He let Dad have first shower, too. He’d have gotten it anyway, because he was in charge, but he’d earned it by getting torn to bits. All Dean was going to do was sit with Bobby and he could do that dirty just as easily as he could clean. 

Dean himself was in tolerable shape. His knuckles were swollen from punching on that hard exoskeleton and he thought he might have fractured them in a place or two, but that was okay. It was nothing that wouldn’t heal up on its own, provided that he didn’t go punching any walls. If Dad would let them rest for a day or two he’d be golden. 

Dean stayed awake overnight while Dad went to bed. He’d been hurt, after all – one arm still broken and the other one clawed to hell. Bobby stayed out cold. Dean checked on him at regular intervals, but otherwise spent the time cleaning the weapons and reading. Funny – after a successful hunt he should be in a celebratory mood, not desperate to avoid being alone with his thoughts. 

The next morning Dad came into Bobby’s room. “Dean, you got things with Bobby here?” 

“Yes, sir,” he nodded. “Of course.” 

“Okay. I’ve got something I’ve got to take care of. I’ll meet up with you sometime after Thanksgiving.” He walked out the door. 

Dean slumped against the wall as the silence overwhelmed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is considered illegal in most jurisdictions to explode a columbarium. Check with your lawyer to be sure!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes back to class. John makes a friend. Dean gets grumpy.

**Sam**

 

            Sam’s recovery astonished everyone at the hospital except for Sam himself. They felt he was recovering far too quickly to be humanly possible and even Pastor Jim watched him carefully, as though he was going to sprout horns and a tail at any minute or something. Sam, on the other hand, chafed at the slow pace of his healing.  His body had been – well, not strong, not like Dean’s, but usable.  Now it was weak and useless, a collection of too-long limbs and hair that he should probably get around to trimming and not much else. By the time he could walk around the ward five times without having to grab the wall once it was time to be done with this place and get back to work.  He’d killed enough time here.

            Surprisingly, or maybe not, the hospital was okay with that.  He had a week of classes left before Thanksgiving, which was late this year.  He still had time to catch up.  Dr. Eppley, who insisted on speaking to Pastor Jim and Meli as though Sam wasn’t in the damn room sitting right there, had a list of instructions for his release. The list was long.

            He was to do absolutely nothing strenuous until after Christmas. He was to get plenty of sleep. He was to eat, and eat well – he needed to get his weight up if he was going to make a full recovery. That part had him rolling his eyes; like he wasn’t going to get fatter just sitting on his ass the way she wanted him to.  He was to take all of the antibiotics assigned to him until they were used up.

            And, she reiterated, he was to see the counselor she recommended.

            He balked at that; anyone would.  He did not need to go see some shrink.  He was fine; he did not need to go vomiting out his issues to someone paid to listen. He didn’t have any problems that were worth hassling someone over.  He was coping with what had happened just fine and he would continue to cope with them just fine, thanks. 

            Much to his surprise, Pastor Jim supported Eppley, not Sam. “I think it’s a good idea, Sam. All the other kids who were there are receiving counseling for very obvious reasons – it was a traumatic event for everyone.  You included.”

            Alone with Jim and Meli at this point, Sam just sighed and leaned back against his hospital bed.  He’d definitely miss the way it adjusted.  Not enough to stay, but he’d miss it.  “I’ve seen worse. This… I mean, of course I’m upset that we lost Vicki.  And whatever happened with Ginny.  That’s going to bother me for a long time.  But that’s not something that some… counselor is going to be able to help with. Like I said, I’ve seen worse.”

            “Okay. But maybe you don’t have to cope with it all by yourself, Sam.  You think anyone doesn’t know that you have nightmares?” Meli challenged, raising her eyebrow as she sat on the end of his bed.  “Come on, Sam.  Just because you’ve seen worse, just because you’ve had worse, doesn’t mean that you have to go it alone. You can do this.”

            Sam pulled his head back to try to get a better look at his friend. She wasn’t making much sense the way things looked right now.  Of course he “could” do this.  He _could_ do anything he wanted.  Hell, he’d _posed_ as a counselor once, trying to get access to an exceptionally nasty vengeful spirit’s psych file.  He was certainly more than capable of sitting in front of a professional and spinning whatever story he needed to.  “But I don’t need to,” he pointed out.  “I’m fine.”

            Meli and Jim exchanged looks.  “Well, just give it a try, okay, Sam?” the latter requested.

            Either way, he was getting out and back into his little room. He couldn’t wait.

            Pastor Jim insisted on accompanying him and even staying in the room with him for a few days.  “It’s just to make sure that everything’s okay, son,” he said with a smile.  “I just… we almost lost you.  You can forgive an old man for wanting to be sure that you’re okay.”  

            He supposed that he could, as long as Jim didn’t mind staying in cramped quarters.  “I guess that Palo Alto is a little gentler than Minnesota in late November anyway,” he suggested with a grin. 

            Jim chuckled.  “There is that,” he admitted. “There is that. I’ll have to go back to Blue Earth for Thanksgiving, though.  I do have a parish to run.” 

            He didn’t mention the fact that Dad and Dean were at the rectory, waiting to celebrate the holiday with the pastor.  He didn’t need to.  The fact that he hadn’t invited Sam back with him or even brought the subject up was enough of a subtle hint.  “That’s okay, sir. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

            The first thing Sam wanted to do when he got back to campus was shower. He was allowed to shower at the hospital but it was always monitored, in case of falls or something. If he took too long in there nurses came around asking if he needed “help,” and if there was anything that he needed it was not help in the damn shower.  Here, at the dorm with its infinite hot water, he could stand there and really wash himself clean.  Well, as clean as he could get anyway.

            The hospital smell – the scent of antiseptic, the general smell of sickness – he could solve with liberal application of hot water and soap. The rest of it was more difficult to address.   The general feeling of filth, of grime and sludge and uncleanliness that had run underneath his skin for as long as Sam could remember, seemed to have increased since he went into the hospital and he had no idea why.  Had something happened while he was unconscious?  No, he’d been well guarded.  If there was anything supernatural creatures had in common it was a reluctance to act in front of large numbers of witnesses.  Well, except for the owl men, and mothmen maybe. If they were even a thing, who knew?

            So why should he feel even dirtier than before? 

            Whatever the reason, he scrubbed himself until his skin was raw. By the time Brady came and found him he’d managed to make himself bleed in a few places.  Brady didn’t say anything and Sam didn’t look him in the eye; he just let his friend bundle him into a towel and hustle him back to his room to get those spots bandaged by Jim.  Between the two of them, they got Sam’s appointment with the trauma counselor scheduled for Monday afternoon between Chemistry and Hebrew.  His professor for Hebrew was willing to make up the lessons with him later; he worked out a deal with Pastor Jim because Jim was just that kind of guy.  It didn’t matter how Sam felt about the matter; he was going to the counselor.

            The counselor – Dr. Coryell, a dark-skinned man in his late fifties - didn’t need to talk to Sam to pick up a few key facts right away. “So.  Sam.  I take it you don’t want to be here.” 

            Sam startled.  “Sorry, sir. I don’t mean to be offensive. I just…”

            “Don’t think you need it,” Coryell finished.  “You were too polite to say anything, but I already know it wasn’t you who made the appointment, Sam.  Your doctor recommended it after noticing certain signs, and your priest friend made the appointment.  But I see you can’t sit still and you keep biting your nails and looking at the door. You’re not comfortable.”

            _Certain signs, huh_? Sam kept his sneer to himself. He supposed that those “signs” involved seeing something “scary” and getting hurt.  Or maybe it was the scars.  Maybe once he could have used counseling, but now he’d gotten out. He was away, he was free. He didn’t need to talk things out or drag his family through the mud; he just needed to get on with his life. “No, sir,” Sam sighed. “I’m not.  I’m sorry.”

            “Would you like to talk about why, Sam?”  He folded his fingers together in front of his face and then spread them apart, inviting. 

            “It’s just… not something we did in my family,” he tried. “Ever.”

            “Counseling?”

            Sam huffed out a laugh.  “Feelings. I mean, you could have them, sure, but you could keep them to yourself or let them out in a healthy way like… like…” He cast about for a way that didn’t make his family sound like they needed to be kept off the streets.

            “Like tracking your son down on campus and trying to kick his door down?” Coryell smirked. “I might have made some inquiries when your case file landed in my in box.  It’s not every day that a hunter winds up on my case load.”

            Something inside Sam snapped.  He leaned forward. “I.  Am.  Not. A.  Hunter,” he snarled, both hands on the strange man’s desk. He didn’t bother wondering why a trauma counselor knew the first thing about hunting; the important thing was that this man understand that hunting and Sam had nothing to do with one another.

            The counselor didn’t flinch, nor did he pull away.  “Sam.  You showed up to a camping trip full of normal college kids with two handguns. And I know that it wasn’t any pride of mountain lions or whatever that got you kids.  I heard about what happened and I took a look. Oh, don’t look at me like that. All those kids stood by that story about the damn mountain lions, but I got that kid Harris to crack when I told him I went out there.  He’s the one that told me about the guns.  It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.  You’re a hunter, and that’s okay.”

            “No, I’m not.  I’m a student. I research.  I study law.  I play soccer and then I go back to my room and I do normal college things. I’m not a goddamn hunter.” The words sounded more like a growl than like actual language even to Sam, and he was ashamed to have lost himself so easily. 

            Coryell, though, looked satisfied.  “I see. If it’s any consolation to you, I’m retired myself.  There’s no shame in getting out of the business, either.  But you did save all of those other kids.” 

            Sam threw himself back into the chair and started worrying at his nails again. “Not all of them.” And that was the thing, wasn’t it? He hadn’t done the job right. He hadn’t helped everyone. Vicki had still died, and civilians had still seen what had happened.  Sutter’s leg was broken and Ginny – well, Ginny would never be right again, would she?

            “More than would have been saved if you hadn’t been there. And I’ll tell you another thing, Sam Winchester.  There’s not another hunter I can think of that could have taken out six owl men by himself.”

            “Shouldn’t have been six owl men to take out,” Sam retorted without thinking. “They’re solitary.”

            Coryell laughed.  “There you have it. But let’s talk for a minute about why you say you’re not a hunter.” 

            “You could always ask my dad,” Sam suggested.  “Or my brother.  What I did the other day – week – whatever – that was luck, okay? I’m not competent. I’m not very good. I mean sure, I shot the owl men but I didn’t know that they were going to be there.  I should’ve found a way to keep people away from the park. Dean would’ve known. This wouldn’t have happened if Dean had been around.”  Vicki would still be alive if Dean had been around. 

            Coryell looked at him for several long moments.  “Sam.  Do you have any idea how many hunters there are in this area?”

            He noticed that his leg was jiggling, his heel tapping along the ground the way it did when he was too full of nervous energy to sit still. He put a hand on the offending limb, forcing it to stillness.  “A few.”

            “More than a few.  And none of them picked up on the owl men, or the idea that they were traveling in flocks over here. So I highly doubt that either your brother or your father would have had the first clue about the things either. You’re off the hook. This is not your fault.” He sat back.  “Tell me, Sam.  Are you enjoying school?”

            Sam let out a giant sigh of relief.  Talking about something other than hunting was ideal right now. “School’s good,” he admitted.

            “Adjusting is a little weird.”  He looked out the window.  “It is for everyone. There are kids coming here from war zones, kids coming in from cults, kids coming in from extreme poverty. I’m not special.”

            “Mmm-hmm.” The counselor nodded. “That’s an interesting outlook. I mean, from a certain point of view, it could be argued that you’re coming in from all of those things. I’ve seen your file, Sam. And I know what’s not there.”

            “Look, my family’s not –“  He stopped himself.  “You don’t know my family. Can we not talk about hunting please?”

            “Fine by me.  Were you close with any of the victims?”  Coryell met his eyes.

            Sam started to feel short of his breath.  “I’m – I was – close with Ginny.  I wasn’t conscious when she did whatever it was that she did, but we were, you know, close.”  He blushed.

            “Was she your girlfriend?”

            “No. But I guess maybe friends with benefits?”  This room was definitely too hot for him right now.  “And now she’s gone away.  She was brilliant, and she was fearless, and now she’s just gone.  Snapped, they said.  Because I couldn’t stop it fast enough.” 

            “No, Sam.  You couldn’t have predicted that, any more than you could have predicted the owl men coming in a flock.”

            They got through their hour.  At the end of the hour, Sam didn’t feel any better.  He felt worse, like someone had taken sandpaper to his heart or something. He said as much to Pastor Jim, who nodded.  “Well, you have to acknowledge some things before you can get past them, Sam.  You’ll see.  This will be for the best.  Interesting that a hunter would retire and turn into a trauma counselor, though.”

            Slowly but surely, things started to turn around.  He was able to catch up in his classes with only a minimal expenditure of effort thanks to all of the effort he’d put in earlier in the semester. “Who knew that insomnia would have its good points?” he joked with Jim and with Brady. 

            After a few days Jim pronounced him well enough to be on his own, or at least well enough to be left alone with Brady and Meli.  “It’s funny,” the priest told him, smiling softly. “I was worried about you coming here, you know.  I knew you’d be coming into a vastly different world than the one you were coming out of, and I wasn’t sure how easily you’d adapt.  But it seems like you’ve made some good friends here.  You’ve got some good people who will take good care of you, Sam. I’m not worried about leaving you with them.  They’ll make sure you heal up right.” 

            Brady drove him to the airport, his small duffel slung over his back and a gift for Dean in his jacket pocket.  Sam stayed back at the dorm. 

            Life got back to normal, or at least to the new normal for Sam. Classes were classes, and if he got a little tired getting to and from his classes every day that was fine. He got less exhausted every day. He wasn’t able to hit the gym the way he had been, but he could make up for that with his translation business. He started responding to inquiries for Taurus again, too, although once Meli figured out that was what he was doing she did her best to limit his efforts.  “You’re supposed to be resting and getting better,” she pointed out. “Not running yourself into the ground again.” 

            His social life took the biggest hit.  In a way that was probably for the best, since he wasn’t going to recover easily if he had people knocking on his door and crawling into his bed at two o’clock in the morning.  On the other hand, most of the people on his floor seemed to want to give him a wide berth. Why wouldn’t they? He was a freak. They’d seen that first hand, and maybe it had been convenient to have the freak around when stuff got wild but now that they were safely in their dorm they didn’t want to come near him.

            “I hear you’ve gotten to be somewhat withdrawn,” Coryell observed at their next meeting. 

            Sam looked at him.  “Do you have spy cameras all over the dorm or what?”

            “Not so much cameras, but remember, I’m talking to some of the other survivors. They say you hardly come out of your room except for classes anymore.”  The therapist paused, pen near the corner of his mouth. “Any ideas on why?”

            Sam shrugged.  “They don’t want me around.  I mean, I’m a freak. They shouldn’t want me around.”

            “You’re a freak,” Coryell repeated.  “Do you think they might be a little hesitant to approach because of the trauma?”

            Sam refrained from rolling his eyes.  If only Dean could get a load of this guy.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.”

            “Try leaving your door open.  If you want them to come in, that is.  If you don’t, well, that’s different.” 

            Sam privately thought that the idea was kind of absurd, but he left the door open when he got back to his room that night.  He spent most of the evening alone, but just before nine Harris stuck his head in.  “Hey, Sam. A bunch of us are going to watch Morales vs. Ayala.  You want to come join us?”

            Sam hesitated, but he got up off the bed and went to join his friend.

 

**John**

            John felt kind of bad about taking off on Dean so soon after finishing the mothman job.  Really, he had. The kid had done well, he’d done spectacularly well, and he would probably want to take some time to put their feet up and congratulate themselves on having done well. John almost wanted to do so himself, just like they had when the boys had been young and they’d been just learning how to hunt.  Right now, though, Dean was no novice.  He didn’t need coaching, he didn’t need his pretty little hand held, he needed to get with it and get down to business.  There wasn’t time to sit around and rest on their laurels.  People were dying, and things were heating up.  He’d gotten a call from a friend of Caleb’s, and with the way things seemed to be coming together he didn’t want to alienate any more hunters than he already had.

            So instead of waiting around to coddle his grown son – who should be beyond needing that kind of thing now, the boy was twenty-three for crying out loud – he got into his giant black pickup truck.  Instead of sitting around the kitchen table in the rectory and savoring a nice mug of well-made coffee with Dean he pulled into a drive-through and got a tall Styrofoam cup of something that could have taken the clear coat right off of his ride if he wasn’t careful.  And instead of waiting for Bobby Singer to wake up, offering the tested experience of a combat-trained field medic, he turned his truck out onto East Leland Parkway, then out onto North Grove Street, and finally out onto I-90 West. 

            His ultimate destination was eight hours away no matter which way he sliced or diced it; North Platte, Nebraska was always going to be a good ways away from Blue Earth, Minnesota.  Not for the first time, he thought about stopping in to visit with Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo.  Jo would probably be a grown woman by now, a little older than Sammy if he remembered correctly. Not that he was any kind of judge of how kids grew, but she’d been a pretty little girl and would probably have grown into a beautiful woman. 

            At the same time, he couldn’t justify dropping in anywhere near Harvelle’s. God no, no way he could get away with showing his face anywhere near Bill’s woman or his little girl, not after seeing what he’d seen or doing what he’d done.  It hadn’t been avoidable, it had been the kindest thing by Bill, but he still didn’t have the right to so much as darken their doorstep. No, he’d give the Roadhouse a wide berth. 

            That didn’t stop his brain from occupying the long hours between Blue Earth and North Platte with all of the “what ifs” that a long, lonely drive is prone to spawning.  What if Bill hadn’t been hurt? What if Bill had lived? He and Ellen had always been willing to take on the boys when John had needed to go out on a job, and that Ellen, well, it hadn’t been much for her to keep Dean and Sammy in line right alongside little Joanna Beth.  Maybe if they’d had that in their lives, that kind of stability, Dean would have had the confidence he needed to really take charge and run a case.  Maybe Sammy would have learned some values and stayed in his place, done his duty by his family. 

            Then again, maybe not.  John knew better than to let the what-ifs get to him.  Now, looking back, it was easy to get all dewy-eyed and sentimental about how it would have been oh-so-sweet to give those boys a mother figure and someplace to come back to.  He’d known it back then and he knew it now: having a home territory, a place you came back to, just made it easy for the bad guys to find you.  Sure they might have been happier, but they’d have been weaker for it. Dean would probably have knocked up the poor Harvelle girl by now, the way he carried on, and no amount of maternal whatever would have tamed Sammy’s arrogance or pride.  They’d probably have put all of the Harvelles in danger, not just Bill, just by wandering around with whatever dark cloud dogged little Sammy’s steps, and even if not there was no way Dean would have been as useful in the field if he had a baby to worry about.  (Or a baby that he knew about, anyway.) 

            No, this way was best.  No attachments to anyone outside the family, that way no one else got hurt.

            He met up with his contact at a little riverfront bar called Shifty’s. It might have been the most aptly named bar in existence; John thought that the place might have been built entirely out of clapboard and tarpaper.  The kid stood out here, that was for damn sure; the only dark skin in a sea of white, sitting amongst the bikers like he didn’t notice the Confederate flags on tee shirts or belt buckles.  Maybe he didn’t. Everything about this man was coiled tension waiting to explode.  Maybe all of his attention was caught up in holding all of that energy inside.

            John walked right up to the younger man.  “You must be Walker.” 

            The kid smirked up at him.  “That’s right.  Gordon Walker, at your service.  You must be the famous John Winchester.”  He held out his hand.

            John shook it.  The youth’s hands were dry and calloused, but strong.  He liked the kid already.  “It’s a pleasure.” He sat down.  “Caleb said you were looking at a water spirit?”

            Gordon hesitated.  “Maybe. That’s a little outside my specialty.”

            John winced.  He hated the idea of hunters with a specialty.  “As far as I’m concerned, if something’s a supernatural piece of crap you kill it. I’ve never heard of hunters with specialties,” he frowned. 

            A waitress approached, not much different from any other cocktail waitress in any other similar bar.  Dean would have been all over her in a heartbeat.  Gordon just glanced up at her, his eyes being the only muscles that moved. “Give us a round of whiskeys, please. Thank you.”  Those burning coals snapped back to John. He thought he could hear the snap, which was of course absurd.  “I get that, John.  I do. It’s just that every hunter gets into this business for a reason, right?  And mine was vampires.  I spend most of my time hunting down that particular piece of crap.” He grinned, and it was a horrible sight. No warmth to it. “Now, I’m not going to walk away when I see something else, you know?  A river spirit has to go down, and I understand that.  I also understand that I don’t necessarily have the expertise to take one down.  So I called Travis, who told me to call Caleb.  Caleb recommended that I reach out to you.” 

            John preened.  “Well, I’m sure happy to help.”  He paused. “I thought vampires were extinct, though.  I haven’t even heard of one in more than a decade.” 

            Walker’s eyes went flat.  “They’re around. Take my word for it.”

            John was in no position to judge another man’s revenge obsession. “I will.  No problem.”  He held up his hands as the waitress returned with their drinks.  “So.  What makes you think it’s a river spirit?”

            Gordon took a deep breath.  “I explained the symptoms to Travis.  He thought that some of the signs fit.  Anyone who goes out on the water meets up with a huge waterspout; chances are they’ll never be heard from again.  They’ve lost ten people this year.” 

            “Ten people.”  He shook his head. How had he missed this in his trawling for cases?  He could have hit this in any one of his cross-country drives.  “That’s amazing.  I wonder how no one’s picked it up before now.”

            Walker shrugged.  “Doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we’re here now.”

            John nodded.  He hadn’t known Walker for long, but so far he’d shown an amazing strength of character. No fussing about fault and blame, no angsting about how they could have missed this or anything ridiculous like that, just “let’s get the job done.”  How was it possible that this guy got it and his youngest didn’t? “Well, it could be a water spirit,” he admitted.  “I’ve seen some that act like that, but they’re usually kind of native to the area. If there had been a water spirit that was native to that particular area – the confluence of two rivers, becoming one river – people would have noticed long before now. They wouldn’t have built a damn city here, for one thing.” 

            Walker looked away, considering.  “Something could have summoned it, maybe?”

            John bit the inside of his cheek, trying to remember if he’d ever seen anything like that.  Of course, in an ideal situation he’d just call Pastor Jim for the information, or get Dean to pretend he wasn’t calling Bobby Singer as soon as John hung up the phone. Neither one was an option right now, because Jim was off chasing rainbows or whatever in California and Bobby was sleeping off the effects of a concussion.  “Anything’s possible.  We can’t rule it out.  There’s another possibility, too.” 

            “What’s that?”

            “Ghost. How are you with research?”

            Walker’s answering grin was wolfish.  “I do okay.” 

            For a moment, just a second, John felt cold.  He shook it off.  Of course Gordon was good at research.  His prey lived among humans to some extent; they left records in the human population. He’d have to be good at research to keep up.  “Okay. We can’t leave any stone unturned, so we should split squads on this.  I’ll take the water spirit angle if you want to take the ghost angle, unless you want to switch.”

            “No, no.”  Walker shook his head, smiling an odd little Mona Lisa smile.  “You know what you’re looking for in terms of summoning.  I’d just be fumbling around in the dark.”

            “Alright. Just look for anything about a person who died in the river.  The usual drill – violent or unexpected death.  Suicide, homicide, accidental drowning.”  He smiled at the waitress when she brought their drinks. She smiled back, letting her hand stroke his shoulder on her way past.  Maybe he wouldn’t be alone tonight after all. 

            Gordon saw the gesture and gave a tiny little smile, but said nothing. “And what, meet up again tomorrow night? Compare notes?”

            “Sounds like a plan.  I’m staying at the Riverside Motor Lodge, room 42.  Stop by there at nine o’clock tomorrow night and we’ll see what we came up with, who came up with the more likely case or if there’s something else we need to look at.”  He nodded, satisfied that would be enough.  Gordon Walker seemed like a professional, after all. 

            The waitress – Sandi – did come back to his motel with him. She didn’t mind the cast, didn’t care about the stitches.  She just liked the look of him, she said.  It had been a long time since someone had liked the look of John.  Maybe she was a little younger than he would normally even consider but hey, a guy like him couldn’t afford to be too particular, and she didn’t seem to be all that concerned about the age gap.  As soon as the door was closed behind them she was on him, all lips and hands and tongue, and he let himself enjoy the attention. Maybe on some level he could still please someone, put a smile on someone’s face without feeling like a liar.

            He bought her breakfast in the morning before driving her home and hitting the library.  He could probably stay back in the motel room and get the same information thanks to the wonders of the Internet but he felt like getting out and stretching his legs. After all, who knew but that his leads might take him someplace made up of something besides zeroes and ones?

            They did not.  They couldn’t have. There were no leads. He wasn’t exactly an expert in the field of nature spirits – those sons of bitches were rarer than hell – but he knew that they didn’t just pop up all of a sudden, and this nasty sucker hadn’t started doing this thing until July.  Out of due diligence, he did check into the possibility of some kind of environmental upheaval that might have released or angered a water spirit.

            There was nothing.  Indeed, residents of North Platte had made an exceptional effort, all things considered, to be cautious of the environment of late.  Human remains had been found during dredging associated with attempts to improve flow for irrigation, and that was where John knew that they were barking up the wrong tree with the whole river spirit thing. 

            He called Gordon and explained what he’d found.  The vampire hunter acknowledged that he’d found out about the remains too.  Neither one of them could find any information about the deceased, other than the fact that she was female and that she might have died sometime around the 1940s. “Wasn’t that around when they had the North Platte Canteen?” John recalled. 

            “What’s that?”  Gordon didn’t sound all that keen on history, but John decided to explain it to him anyway.

            “It was a stop for US soldiers during World War Two. Supposed to boost morale or something. Locals would bring them homemade food, cigarettes, that kind of thing.  I’m not sure that I entirely get it myself, but supposedly it was effective.” He shrugged.  Maybe a home-baked cake would have been nice on his way to Vietnam. He’d volunteered, after all, and so had most of the boys going off to war in the forties.  It seemed so long ago that something like that could touch him; now it just seemed like a frivolous waste.  “It was vaguely famous or something.  I wonder if our dead gal’s death had something to do with the canteen.”

            “Does it matter?” Gordon asked, nonplussed. 

            “I don’t suppose that it does.  Let’s see if we can’t figure out what they did with her bones. We can salt and burn ‘em and be done with it.”  He grinned. The change in attitude threw him for a loop for a minute.  Of course it didn’t matter why the girl had died.  She was killing people now and had to be put down, that was all there was to it. What had he even been thinking?

            “We might have some trouble with that.  Her body was cremated.  They did put a ring she was wearing into the display case at the visitor center, though.”

            John let himself grin.  “What do you say, there, Gordon?  You up for a little B&E?” 

            “You know it.” 

            Breaking into the visitor center was something of a joke. So was security on the ring case. Of course, the nameless spirit wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about having them come and take her ring, which made up for the ease of the theft.  John got tossed into a cabinet and Gordon put through a separate glass case before he tossed a shotgun to Walker.  “Shoot her!” he demanded. 

            “She’s a ghost!” his partner yelled back.

            “It’s rock salt!” he told the younger man. 

            Gordon didn’t need to be told twice.  He fired the salt rounds into the nameless spirit, covering John long enough to get to the boiler room. 

            John tossed the ring into the boiler.  Gordon still had to fire a few more rounds before the trinket completely melted down, but they got through the hunt without further injuries and in John’s book that constituted a win.  Gordon seemed to be riding high on the victory as well, throwing his head back and laughing. “Let’s go out and celebrate!” he demanded. 

            John hesitated, but decided to go.  At the end of the day, there wasn’t any harm in it.  He’d denied himself the celebration with Dean, but Gordon wasn’t his responsibility.  He didn’t care if Gordon learned to buckle down, learned to rein in that exuberance of his. Gordon absolutely had his priorities straight. Well, most of them, anyway.

            They went out to one of the nicer bars in North Platte and spread out over the table, indulging in whiskey and rum.  John could see the liquor taking hold in his companion. His laughs grew louder, his stare more intense.  Then he leaned in and asked, “So is it true that you’ve hunted with Daniel Elkins?”

            John paused.  He wasn’t drunk, not yet. He’d had enough to give himself that nice, warm-in-his-bones feeling that rum always offered him, but he wasn’t drunk yet.  “I knew Daniel,” he admitted. “We haven’t spoken in a long time.”

            “Where could I find him?”

            “You can’t,” John told him bluntly.  “If he’s even still alive, he don’t want to be found.  And a man like that, with his paranoia?  Well, if he don’t want to be found, you ain’t gonna find him. I don’t care how good you are, son.”

            “You don’t understand.”  Walker folded the tips of his fingers together, long and elegant.  “I _need_ to find him. He’s the best vampire hunter that ever lived.  I need to work with him. I need to learn from him, I need to know what he knows!”

            John sighed.  “He ain’t going to take your calls, Gordon.  But I’ll tell you what.  I’ve got a couple of days before I have to be anywhere.  How about I tell you everything he told me?”

            Gordon hesitated.  “I guess that’ll work just as well, he decided. 

 

**Dean**

 

            Dean bit back on his disappointment when his father walked out. They hadn’t even been done with that job for twelve hours.  Not twelve hours and Dad had taken off.  He had Bobby sick with a concussion upstairs, but otherwise Dean was alone in the rectory.

            He had no idea what he’d done to drive Dad away.  He thought he’d performed well on the case. They’d taken out the mothman; Dean had even been part of taking out the mothman.  Was he mad because Dean had gotten too into punching the mothman in his face? That couldn’t be it, he’d encouraged Dean to get his licks in.  Had he been angry that Dean had let Bobby get hurt?  Maybe that was it.  Yeah, yeah, that made sense, because Bobby was an important asset and now he was all laid up. Dean wasn’t quite sure how it was his fault that the guy got hurt, but it had to be his fault or else Dad wouldn’t have taken off.

            This… this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.  Back when they were kids Dad had left him with Sammy because Sammy was too little, or too slow, or too unreliable, or too recalcitrant, to be brought along on hunts.  Sometimes Dad would say that a hunt was too dangerous and he wasn’t willing to risk his boys, but Dean knew the real reason.  It was because he didn’t want Sammy there, didn’t trust Sammy.  Now Dean wasn’t a big advocate of Sammy taking off – not at all. He’d only ever wanted Sammy to quit his bitching and get with the program.  Since Sammy hadn’t been willing to do that, Dean was warming up to the idea of the next best thing: fighting at Dad’s side. 

            Dad, though, Dad still wasn’t willing to bring him along. Dad was still leaving him behind, alone. He’d left him behind in Fall River and he was leaving him alone now, in Blue Earth.  He’d left him alone in this cavern of a rectory, with no one to talk to and nothing to do, and he wouldn’t even tell Dean what he’d done wrong so that he could apologize or fix it.

            Maybe Dad was mad because of Sammy.  Maybe Dad still blamed Dean for Sammy taking off like he had. Dean was still mad at Dean for Sammy taking off the way he had, so why not Dad?  It wasn’t like he could fix that, somehow make it up to his father. The mistake had been one of too many years’ genesis for it to be fixable now, and of course Sam was off in California living the high life so never mind.  Good thing the life didn’t allow for starting families or crap like that, because he’d done such a shit job with Sammy that he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near children at all ever. 

            Still, he had a job to do now.  Maybe it would have been nice to go out and celebrate the successful end to a hunt or try to numb away the sting of his father’s abandonment, but Bobby needed him right now.  So Dean stayed at the rectory and he hovered over Bobby, neither eating nor sleeping until the older man opened his eyes. 

            That blessed moment took longer than Dean would have wanted – two days, and Dean was starting to wonder if he should think about breaking Rule Number Two and take his friend to the hospital when finally the junk man groaned and blinked himself awake.  Maybe he’d taken longer than was really good for him to knit his head back together but he woke up with just a bad headache and not much worse about him. “Well don’t you look a fright?” he asked when he saw Dean looming over him. 

            “Back at you, old man,” Dean chuckled.  Seeing Bobby, awake and comparatively healthy, did wonders for his psyche. So did hearing another voice in the old place.  “How are you feeling?”

            “Like some kind of a critter out of a Japanese horror flick threw me into a gravestone.  How about you?”   Bobby struggled to sit up, and Dean rushed to help him. 

            “You know me, Bobby.  I’m fine. I’m always fine.”

            “Oh, I know you Winchesters.  I know how to translate ‘fine,’ too.  I remember your brother saying he was ‘fine’ when he had a damn metal spike through his leg.” Rolling his eyes made Bobby turn green, but he did it anyway. 

            “He was fine, Bobby.” 

            “Yeah, eventually. 

            “No harm, no foul.” 

            “Wouldn’t have been ‘no harm’ if I hadn’t noticed the spike, boy.”

            “We’d have gotten around to it eventually.  We had other priorities.”  Dean laughed, remembering the hunt in question.  They’d been looking for the wrong thing – vengeful spirit instead of werewolf – and of course the thing hadn’t been bothered by the iron poker Dean had tried to stab it with.  Naturally, it had decided to lash out against a twelve-year-old Sammy, who just as naturally had decided to just not say anything about it until they got to Caleb’s because of some stupid fight he’d had with Dad earlier that day.  “Anyway, I’m good, I was just worried about you.”

            “Well, it’s going to take more than a bonk on the head to keep me out of it for more than a couple of days.  You know me.”  He grimaced when he tried to move.  “I might not be moving much, but I’m definitely still here.”  He stopped trying to stand up.  “Why don’t you go get Johnny in here, the three of us can debrief about the mothman, talk about what worked and what didn’t.”

            Dean hesitated.  “I don’t think there’s much that didn’t work, Bobby.  I mean, we won.  We took the thing down, end of story.” 

            His friend fixed him with a knowing look.  “Where’s Johnny, Dean?” 

            “He’s… you know… somewhere…”  He felt his cheeks get hotter. 

            “Did he take off already?”

            Dean looked away.  “He had someplace he had to be.  Said he’d catch up to me sometime after Thanksgiving.” 

            “Damn the man!”  Bobby’s snarl was vicious, which couldn’t have been great for his head, and he slammed his fist into the pillow, which could only have sent the room spinning for him. Dean had experienced more than his fair share of concussions; he knew whereof he spoke.  “What the hell is he thinking?”

            “It’s not like that, Bobby!  He’s got things, projects.  People are dying! He can’t afford to just sit around here because I can’t be left alone!”  Dean stood up and started pacing.  “It’s not his fault, okay?  I’m sure he’d have stayed if he could have.” 

            Bobby sighed.  “You don’t have to defend him to me, son.  It’s okay to be annoyed that he ditched.”

            “No, it isn’t,” Dean bristled.  “I’m a good son.  I understand why he does what he does.” 

            “You’re a very good son, Dean,” Bobby told him softly.  He fell silent for a moment, looking off into the distance for a moment and Dean wondered if he was maybe having a stroke or something, but then he asked, “So.  What do we have for grub around here?”

            The young hunter relaxed.  “Uh, not a lot.  We’ve kind of eaten poor Pastor Jim out of house and home.  I’ll go out and get us something; what are you feeling up to right now? Probably not anything too heavy, I’m guessing.” 

            “Nah, just some soup would be fine for now.  Why don’t you head out to that diner out on Main Street and get us a few meals to take away?  I’m pretty sure we’ll be here for a while yet.” 

            “Are you sure, Bobby?  I mean, I don’t want to keep you here, we can both take off –“

            “Do I look like I’m in any condition to drive to you, boy? Just you go and get me some grub. And my hat.  I need my hat; I feel naked without it.” 

            Dean laughed.  Even though the circumstances were pretty darn far from ideal, he couldn’t help but feel glad that Bobby was going to stay there with him for a while. 

            And Bobby’s recovery did seem to take some time.  “Can’t seem to shake this headache,” he insisted, every time Dean brought up the subject of maybe clearing out of poor Pastor Jim’s place. “Wouldn’t want to leave the rectory empty anyway.  Jim’s expecting us for Thanksgiving, we’d just have to turn around and come back.”

            “Thanksgiving, yeah.”  He shifted. “About that.  I mean, it’s going to be weird without Dad.”

            “Boy, we both know your daddy ain’t never done anything for Thanksgiving but spring for an extra side from Boston Market.”  Eyes rolled above his beard. 

            “Bobby,” he warned.

            “I’m only saying the truth, Dean.  He’s your daddy, and I ain’t trying to interfere with that. But he ain’t here either, and he’s already told you that he ain’t going to be here with you for the holiday. So you might as well spend it with people who love and care for you, Dean.”  The older hunter smiled gently.  “Ain’t nothing wrong with it.” 

            “I just… I hate to think about Dad being out there alone, you know?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s a holiday that’s supposed to be about family, and he’s all that I have left.” 

            “He really isn’t.  You could take advantage of the opportunity to call your brother for the occasion.” Bobby’s tone was mild, gentle, and his eyes perfectly free of any accusation or malice.

            “No!” Dean shouted.  Bobby winced and guilt flooded Dean.  He’d almost forgotten about the concussion.  He moderated his tone as he continued.  “I’m a good son, Bobby.  I _have_ to be the good son.  Dad _needs_ me to be the good son. He needs to know that he can trust me, okay?” 

            “I’m pretty sure he knows, Dean.  But if you don’t want to talk to Sam, then I ain’t going to force you.” Bobby shook his head slightly. “It’s just a damn shame. I never did see two brothers that were closer than you and Sammy.”

            “Yeah, well.  So much for that. He left me too.” Dean sat down and massaged his face with his hands. 

            “You ever think that it wasn’t you he was leaving?”

            “Doesn’t matter.  He still left me.”

            Bobby gave up on that angle, and it was just as well too. Pastor Jim called from California not long after that, telling them that he’d wrapped up his business out west and would be home on the next flight.  Dean met him at the airport after going on a cleaning spree, genuinely pleased to see the priest even if he was sure that the man had to be grieving.

            Although it turned out that the man wasn’t grieving at all. “Against everything I thought possible,” he explained, “the poor young man survived.  He was badly injured, but he survived.  I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

            When they got back to the rectory, of course, Jim looked around for Dad. “Dean, where’s your father? I need to talk with him.”

            “Sorry, sir.  Is there anything that I can help you with?”  Dean tried.

            “No, no.  Sorry, Dean. I had some specific messages for him, but I’ll try to get him on the phone I suppose.”  A moment of anger crossed the pastor’s usually placid face, but he calmed himself quickly.  Dean wouldn’t have ever known it was there, if he hadn’t been looking at just the right time. “I’d like to speak with Bobby Singer for a moment.  Do you mind excusing us for a moment?” 

            “Not at all, sir.”  Dean retreated to his room.  He wasn’t oblivious to the raised voices, although the two older men didn’t seem to be arguing with each other.  They just seemed to be angry in general.  Well, whatever it was that had Pastor Jim’s panties in a bunch, he’d be over it by morning. He always was.

            The next morning he went for a run and did some training, because he could, and came back to find both older men at the breakfast table. Jim had prepared a wholesome breakfast of oatmeal and toast for them all.  “Good morning, Dean,” he beamed.  “I thought we could enjoy a nice meal together.”

            “Of course, sir.”  He took a seat. “Hey, so how was your trip?”

            “Harrowing. You’d be surprised at just how exciting the interior of a hospital can be.  Fortunately I knew a local hunter who was able to get me some supplies on very short notice.”  The priest gave a tiny little smile. 

            “Do you mean Taurus?”

            “I do,” Jim admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “There were some problems but we got them worked out, nothing to be concerned about.”

            Dean nodded.  “So hey – did you hear about that ‘mountain lion’ attack while you were out there?” Both older men froze. _Gotcha,_ Dean thought meanly.  “You did hear about it.  What was it, really?”

            “Owl men,” Jim confessed.  “Running – flying – in a pack for reasons that completely escape everyone. They must have been migrating, because they never pinged anyone’s radar.  They went after a bunch of college kids.” 

            “Jesus.” Dean gasped.  “That’s wild.  How’d they get away with just one death?”

            “There just happened to be a hunter in the area.  Pure luck, sheer coincidence.”  Jim licked his lips.  “He wasn’t out there hunting anything, didn’t have anything on his radar. He was just out there enjoying a hike like anyone else, maybe training a little, who knows? Heard the kids screaming and went over, threw himself into the fight.  Pure good luck for the kids.  And they know it. Those kids will never be the same.”

            Dean snorted.  “Think any of them will quit school and join the fight?”

            “Why would you want that for them, Dean?” Bobby asked, hands on the table. He seemed genuinely perplexed, turning his head as though looking at Dean from a different angle might help him make more sense.  “They’re safe where they are.  They have a chance to get over this, go on with their lives and be happy.  Why would you want them to get drawn into this crap life?”

            Dean’s temper flared, but he bit on his cheek to hold it back. “Don’t you think that saving lives is a bit more important than literature or history?” he asked calmly. “I mean, they know the truth now. They should be out there fighting!”

            Jim fixed him with a look that was somewhere between pity and horror. “Are you sure you’re not just upset because you think college took something away from you, now you want to take something away from college?”

            Dean got up from the table.  “I think we’re done here.”  He didn’t look back as he went back up to his room. 

 


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tale of Three Thanksgivings

**Sam**

Thanksgiving came. Brady tried to convince him to come home with him, but Dr. Eppley didn’t like the idea of any long car rides (or airplane rides, taking Meli’s offer off the table too) for a while yet. Brady’s parents had also not been consulted about the possibility of him bringing home a stray scholarship student, and while the subject didn’t come up Sam had strong suspicions that he knew exactly how that conversation would go. “Yeah, Mom, Dad, hi. This is Sam, no, really, those are all his clothes, also he’s heavily armed and fails sleep, but he’s mostly housebroken and doesn’t eat much. Can I keep him?”

  


The Bradys were also not open to the possibility of their golden child staying at school during his first holiday break from college to play nursemaid to said scholarship student. Sam heard him on the phone with them for that one, because Brady wouldn’t believe that they’d say no and so wouldn’t leave the room for the conversation. “No, really, Mom, he doesn’t have any family. I’ll be home for Christmas; he’ll be in better shape then. Please? Oh, come on, Mom, it’s not like that.”  


Sam’s cheeks burned with humiliation, but he knew that Brady hadn’t meant it to be an exercise in shame. He was trying to help, to spare Sam the misery of having to spend a family holiday in solitude. He couldn’t tell his friend the truth, of course, but he could tell him part of it. “This is hardly the first time,” he promised. “At least this time I’m not doing stitches, right? Or cleaning up after my dad’s been on a bender, or stuck in some shit motel room wondering where my next meal’s going to come from. I’ll be oaky. It’ll give me a chance to study, catch up on everything I’ve missed.”  


Brady glared at him. “We both know you’re more than caught up, Winchester. But it’s not like there’s anything else that I can do.”  


The dorm slowly emptied. Even Meli left. Sam and the international students were the only ones remaining, wandering campus like ghosts. On Wednesday night Joe from Nigeria and Akane from Japan stuck their heads into his room. “Can we ask you a stupid question?” Joe asked.  


He wanted to tell them that there were no stupid questions, especially at Stanford, but he’d heard more than a few since he’d gotten here. “Go ahead.”  


“What’s Thanksgiving?” Akane wanted to know. She came into the room and sat down on his chair.  


He sighed, looking out the window for a moment. “Ostensibly, we’re supposed to be commemorating the first harvest feast celebrated at Plymouth Colony. The way it gets celebrated isn’t how things went down and the whole way it gets presented is really kind of gross, kind of glorifies colonialism and what turned into a genocide.”  


“That sounds repulsive,” Akane told him, wrinkling her nose and drawing back a little.  


“Yeah, I kind of hate a lot of the presentation around Thanksgiving. I like the idea behind a holiday for being thankful, though. To remember the good things in your life, the things that got you to where you are. I like the idea of getting away from celebrating genocide and colonialism and celebrating food and football, too.” He grinned.  


They nodded, slowly. “I think that the cafeteria is having a Thanksgiving dinner,” Akane told him. “We’re the only three people on our floor who are still here. Maybe we can go together?”  


They agreed. The cafeteria staff had gone to some trouble to get a wide variety of food for people, considering the small number of students actually dining. The traditional foods were available – turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and green bean casserole - but someone had come up with some fabulous-looking side dishes that put the turkey to shame. A vegan could have eaten himself to death here.  


And the pies – there must have been a pie for every student on campus. Dean would have thought that this was heaven. That gave Sam a pang; Dean wouldn’t ever know this feeling, he’d never see this bounty. Sam couldn’t even send him a picture. Still, hopefully Pastor Jim would pass along that envelope and Dean would know that Sam still loved him, understood why he’d ben cut out. Forgave him, even if Dean would never feel that there was anything for Sam to forgive him for.  


Once Joe and Akane had filled their trays they found a table. “Is that really all you’re going to eat?” Joe marveled.  


“Hey, it’s all you can eat!” Sam pointed out with a grin. “I can always go back for more if I’m still hungry.”  


Akane glanced around. “Is this a religious holiday? Is some kind of prayer customary?”  


Sam squirmed. “My family never prayed. Like, um, ever. But some families do, I guess. If one of you wants to lead a quick prayer?”  


They bowed their head while Joe murmured, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.” Both Sam and Akane repeated the “Amen,” and they began to eat.  


“So,” Akane ventured. “What are you all thankful for?”  


Joe gave a little laugh. “I’m thankful for my family, for my education, for God, and for the fact that my roommate went home for a weekend so that I can have some quiet time to work on my paper for O-Chem.”  


They shared a laugh. “I’m thankful for my family, I’m thankful for my friends, I’m thankful for the pie!” Akane added.  


The trio all laughed, and Sam felt an uncomfortable twisting in his gut. “I’m thankful for everything my brother’s done for me,” he began carefully. “I’m thankful to the doctors at Stanford. And I’m very, very thankful to be here at Stanford. This is a fantastic opportunity, a dream come true. And I’m not going to waste it.”  


The others raised their water glasses in a toast. “To not wasting our opportunities!” Joe declared as Sam joined in the toast.  


It wasn’t a family Thanksgiving, but Sam hadn’t had any of those with his own family anyway. This was perfect.

 

**John**

John stayed for a while with Gordon Walker before he made his way up to Windom. He detoured for four days in Sioux City to take care of a specter that was driving perfectly good teenagers to up and kill other perfectly good teenagers. That got kind of messy, but he survived and managed to get up to Windom by the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, none the worse for wear.

Kate was happy to have him, of course; she openly told him that having another adult around the place was comfortable. He slept in the guest room, if you could call it sleep. The house had no wards on it, no salt lines around it. Nothing to protect anyone within if something creepy should come a-calling. Of course, nothing was going to come here. He was going out of his way to make sure that the Milligans were off the radar.

Adam, when he woke on Wednesday to find his father at the breakfast table, was overjoyed. “Dad!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around the grizzled hunter. “What happened to your arm!”

“Hunting accident,” he admitted. “Got a little bit out of hand, but I’ll be out of this cast in no time at all. What’ve you been up to, Sport?”

Kate’s preparations for the big day started on Wednesday, and stitches or not, cast or not, she put John to work too. He shredded bread for the stuffing. He chopped onions. He rolled out piecrusts. John couldn’t help but relax into the rhythm. He’d had nine beautiful Thanksgivings with his beautiful Mary and God but he’d missed them. She’d been just like this too – no nonsense, everything planned out. She knew exactly when to put things into the oven, just how much prep to do ahead of time, everything. She was a good commander, he realized as he watched her boss him around the kitchen like an old pro.

Then he looked around the kitchen. “Um, Kate?”

“Yeah, John?”

“Just how many people were you planning to feed?”

She bit her lip. “Um…. I might have gotten a little carried away.”

That was all right. When dinner was set, groaning at the weight of a full multi-course feast for three people, he couldn’t help but give an indulgent smile and relax. Kate looked happy. Adam looked happy. And John – John was happy.

He tucked into his turkey dinner and resolutely pushed everything else out of his mind. He lingered over the taste of the gravy, how perfectly its savory flavor meshed with the buttery mashed potatoes on his palate. He wallowed in the aroma of the roast turkey and contrasted it to the stuffing, all bread and sausage and some secret ingredient Kate wouldn’t even define. He took seconds of the squash, even though he usually hated vegetables of any kind. Took seconds of the creamed spinach too, because he could.

And then, at the end of the meal, he took a piece of all four pies. He knew it equated to half a pie and he didn’t care. Sweet potato pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, apple pie, he was going to eat it all. Nineteen years since he’d enjoyed any kind of domestic pleasure, he was going to take his time and drink it all in. He’d earned it. He deserved it. He saved people, damn it. He was allowed.

Just as he finished that last piece of pecan pie, his phone rang. The caller ID told him that it was Pastor Jim’s, or at least the rectory. The veteran hunter repressed a growl. At least it wasn’t Dean; Dean would know to call him from his own phone. “Excuse me,” he told his family. “I need to go take this.” He pushed the green button even as he got up and walked toward the front door. “Yeah?”

“And a happy Thanksgiving to you too, Johnny,” came Bobby Singer’s sneering voice. “Thought I’d check in on you. Since, you know, you abandoned your boy without any kind of explanation and left him to find for himself on the holiday.”

John was out on the front porch by now. “He’s twenty-three years old, Bobby. He’s old enough to find his own cases. I had a job of my own. Vengeful spirit down in Nebraska. You can call Gordon Walker and check, if you don’t believe me.”

“Gordon Walker? You’re working with that jackass?” For a moment Bobby’s shock outweighed even his resentment over how John had treated Dean. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“Seemed like a good enough kid to me. Had his priorities straight.” He sighed. “Did you call for a reason, Singer? I’m kind of busy here.”

“I thought you might like to know that your boy’s going to live.”

“It’s not like Dean was hurt, Singer,” John growled.

“Not Dean, you ass. Or did you forget that Mary gave you two sons? Oh, that’s right.” The junk man gave a low laugh.

“You leave her out of this. And how I raise my boys is none of your concern.” John hissed the words into the phone, not wanting to clue Adam in if he were listening on the other side of the door.

“It was Jim’s concern, since Jim was the one he listed as next of kin with the school. After he nearly got killed saving a bunch of college kids from six owl men, they medflighted him out of there and called Jim to come say goodbye. Yeah, that’s when he left you. But he pulled through. Surprisingly enough, he pulled through. He’s got a long recovery ahead of him, and he’s going to have to make it alone, but he’ll pull through.”

“Why are you telling me this?” John closed his eyes. He’d suspected, but now he had confirmation. “Ain’t like I can do anything about it.”

“Thought you might want to know that you came within inches of losing your youngest son, Winchester. That’s the kind of thing that makes a man sit up and think.” Singer’s voice dripped with disgust. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“I lost Sammy back in August. I’ve got nothing in me for him now.” He frowned. It wasn’t true, of course, not entirely, but he couldn’t exactly explain that to the other man. “It’s not like you ever had much use for the boy, Singer.”

“Don’t you go pawning your issues off on me, Winchester. You’re the one who couldn’t ever stand to be in the same room with him. At least I tried to talk to him. You almost lost your chance to make it right with him. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No,” John told him flatly. “No it doesn’t. Like I said, I’ve done all my mourning. He lost any claim to help from us when he left.” He hung up the phone and hung his head for a moment.

So it had been Sammy. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Singer that he’d done all of his mourning back in August. On the other, the thought of Sammy dying – what was he supposed to think about that? There was something dark about that boy, he was sure of it. If he died before he could truly turn evil, would that be such a bad thing? Especially if Dean never had to know about it?

But had Sammy really taken out six owl-men? The kid hadn’t ever mustered up the balls to take on a single creature while they’d hunted together, just looked vaguely disgusted and bored on every hunt. Why couldn’t he have done that with them?

He turned the phone off and stalked back into the house. “What was that all about?” Kate wanted to know.

“Nothing. Just work stuff. This is family time,” he smiled at her, putting an arm around Adam.

**Dean**

Dean didn’t leave the rectory, although the temptation was certainly there. He stayed for Thanksgiving, swallowing down his rage and forcing himself to remember that these people did, truly, care about him. He knew that Jim would be tired from the trip and that Bobby was still kind of beat up from the concussion, not that the old man would admit it, so he dedicated himself to the Thanksgiving feast as the holiday approached.

They didn’t have a lot to put into the feast. None of them were rich and none of them exactly had a lot of money put aside for something like this. But if there was something Dean was good at it was stretching the dollar, and he was more than willing to put his skills to use for the people who had done so much for him.

It wasn’t like they needed much anyway. There were only three of them.

He managed to come up with a turkey breast, and a box of Stove-Top. A can of green beans was nice and cheap too, and he knew that Jim had some good spices lying around that would make that taste like something special without having to add a bunch of pricey cheese or something to it. Potatoes, too, those were cheap. Couldn’t forget the cranberry sauce, nice and ridged from the can. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart, but it was comfortable and it was home.

He also made pie, pecan and apple just because he could. It wasn’t hard, if he splurged on store-bought crust and he could since he’d managed to save on everything else. They didn’t need to go making the table groan, they could make do with everything perfectly well just as they had it.

He spent all day in the kitchen, rising early to get the turkey ready. Jim’s oven was a little persnickety but he’d planned around that and could more than accommodate the little variations. By seven o’clock, only a little later than normal, they could sit down to the table with some lit candles that Jim had fished out of the church supplies, open up a nice bottle of wine that Bobby had acquired from somewhere, and bow their heads for Jim to say grace.

With that, everyone dug in. “I never cease to be amazed,” Jim told him around a mouth full of beans, “by just how good a cook you really are. I mean, you’re incredible.”

Dean blushed. “I’m okay. I don’t do anything fancy, you know how it is.”

“No, really, Dean. You’ve got an incredible talent. You ever think about maybe taking up culinary arts?”

“I’m a hunter, sir.” He smiled, to show that he was still being friendly, but the suggestion rankled.

“Of course you are. I’m a priest and Bobby’s a businessman. Doesn’t take away from us being hunters. Even if you don’t decide to settle down into a settled home, if you decide to stay on the road, it could be a good way to make some legal money when you roll into town sometime.” Jim took another bite of turkey and made a face that probably went against at least six of his vows. “I mean, there’s always going to be a demand for short-order cooks.”

“Mechanics, too,” Bobby agreed. “Something to keep in mind, if you need to earn a little money at some point. Hey, how about those potatoes!”

They got through the dinner and they got through the pie on small talk. Jim thought that he’d heard something about a possible case down in Oklahoma, if Dean was interested. He knew Caleb was more interested in being in Oklahoma in December than in Minnesota in December so that was probably worth checking out, anyway. Bobby mentioned this Rufus character and how he was absolutely positive that he’d sent everything about the salvage yard straight to hell in Bobby’s absence; he should probably get back to the place soon and check on it. “Speaking of which,” he said, “I should go make a call.” He got up and sauntered out to sanctuary, seeking privacy.

Once Bobby was gone, Jim turned to Dean. “Dean,” he said, looking a good ten years older all of a sudden, “I need to talk with you. About my trip.”  


“Okay. Is it about the owl men? I thought you said that Taurus capped them all.” Dean blinked.

“He did. He did, Dean.” Jim took a deep breath. “Taurus is Sam. And he was badly injured in the fight.”

Dean froze. “You went out there to see Sam?” was what came out of his mouth. He couldn’t move. His hands, his legs, everything felt numb. His own voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

Jim fixed him with a firm glare. “Your father might have banned him from your family,” he declared, “but he has no authority over me. He wasn’t expected to survive.”

Dean managed to move his jaw up and down. Sammy had been mauled, almost killed! Sammy had taken out six monsters, alone! Sammy had been left to recuperate alone, in a hospital. Sammy had only listed Pastor Jim on his emergency contact form.

“Don’t give me that betrayed look,” the priest snapped. “I know damn well that you changed your number so that you couldn’t be reached by him. You were on the form too, but your number was disconnected. You would never have known if he had died.” He took a deep breath. “You almost lost your brother, Dean.”

“Jim… I didn’t know! I… is he okay?”

“He’s recovering,” Jim told him, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s going to be a long way until he’s fully healed but he’ll get there if he takes decent care of himself.”

Dean nodded. His head was spinning; he didn’t know what to think. “I can’t even process this,” he admitted. “I mean, Sammy hates hunting.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Jim told him in a dry tone. “He was out camping with some friends, that’s all. The birds came from out of nowhere. He just happened to be carrying, and happened to have ammo that would take them down.”

“Jesus. The kid can’t even shoot!”

“Apparently he can, Dean. But he’s been off trying to heal up in a hospital among strangers and now he’s spending Thanksgiving alone.”

Dean cleared his throat. His eyes burned hot and wet. “I… he knew the risks when he left,” he whispered. “He didn’t want to be part of this family and help us out, he doesn’t get to ask for our help.” The words sounded weak even to him.

“Did you not hear me when I told you that Sam is Taurus?” Jim prodded. “He’s been carrying a super-loaded courselaod, started up a business to make money for the things that the scholarship doesn’t cover, and he’s been doing research for you and your father among others. That’s a lot to be proud of.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and passed Dean a thick envelope. “He sent this for you; he thought you might need it.” Jim stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to let you think about that. And I’m not going to tell your father about Taurus, because you’d both have been killed several times over if not for that resource. What you do next is up to you.”

Dean sat and stared at the envelope for a good twenty minutes. Then he got up and climbed the stairs to his room, where he sat in the dark and stared at his phone for a while. Finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Maybe Dad would check his call log, maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, Dean would stand by his decision now.

He hit speed dial one. “Hello?” came the voice on the other end, a little tired and a little apprehensive. “Can I help you?”

Dean paused. Months. It had been months since he’d heard that voice. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but Sammy sounded more or less the same. “Hello?” Sam said again, pissed this time.

Dean swallowed. “Heya, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 note: I am not making El Sombreron up. I did take a legitimate piece of folklore and make it a little silly, because I felt the need for levity. There is, however, nothing funny about real eating disorders. If you or someone you know has an eating disorder, or suspects that you might have an eating disorder, get expert, professional help. Not a hunter.


End file.
